


The Boys Who Lived

by blithelybonny, Writcraft



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Elements of Dubious Consent, M/M, Minor Character Death, potion addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 20:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4363076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/pseuds/blithelybonny, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Battle for Hogwarts is over and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix have lost the war against Voldemort.  When his father is killed for treason, Draco Malfoy is forced to return to Hogwarts and finds the school under the control of a much changed Slytherin House, and the cruel leadership of the Carrows.  Yet even in the darkest of times, there is light and Draco finds an unlikely ally in Harry Potter.  Battered and bruised by the war, Harry’s tenacity and determination gives Draco hope and the two boys forge an unexpected alliance in a post-war world where secrets tear friends apart and nothing is quite as it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Boy Who Lived

**Author's Note:**

> **Authors' Notes:** We have had a blast creating this story together, and hope you enjoy it. Thank you to the mods for this wonderful fest, and for their patience. The titles to the chapters are all titles used in the _Harry Potter_ series.  
>  **Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

_“Crawl on my belly 'til the sun goes down, I'll never wear your broken crown. I took the road and I fucked it all away, now in this twilight, how dare you speak of grace?”_

(Mumford & Sons – Broken Crown)

When he wakes in a small, uncomfortable bed in St Mungo’s, Draco Malfoy’s first thought is _I should be dead_ and the second is _father’s gone_.

Everything comes back to him in a powerful rush which assaults his senses and leaves him twisting his hands in the bedsheets as he closes his eyes against the memories. There’s a dark room and the sound of laughter. There’s a silvery Patronus and an unfamiliar voice intoning _Lucius Malfoy is dead, come quickly_. There’s a large lake full of water which looks almost black and the pointed spires of Durmstrang stretching into distant rainclouds. Draco’s face stares back at him from the water, pale and wan until a gust of wind makes the water shiver and heavy drops of rain obscure his reflection which ripples and stretches out on the water. A scream jars through Draco’s thoughts, slicing through his mind with until it’s replaced with the silence of defeat and his mother sobbing, dampening Draco’s cheeks with her tears.

“ _Stop_.” He pushes back the memories with a hiss, the effort of speaking almost too much. His chest hurts. Every steady thump of his heart which should be so reassuring – so vital – only serves to increase the dull pain and the sensation of a heavy weight pressing down on his sternum. He tries to move, but a sharp pain leaves him heaving and he settles back onto the pillows with another hiss, his throat bobbing as he swallows.

“I’ve never heard of anyone splinching their heart before. You died, they said. Now _you’re_ the boy who lived.” 

If he didn’t feel as though there was a hippogriff dancing on his chest, Draco would have turned towards the once familiar voice in an instant. Instead, he stares unblinkingly at the ceiling and pulls a face.

“I don’t know why they bothered reviving me.” He pauses when Potter snorts and turns his head to the side with careful precision. “Whose bright idea was it for us to share a room? Or was it just a happy coincidence?”

“Your mum's.” Harry doesn’t elaborate and he shifts out of bed, until his feet connect with the floor. His feet are tanned and unlike his usual baggy Muggle wear, his flannel pyjamas seem a little too short and they bunch up around his calves revealing a smattering of dark hair and bony ankles. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit,” Draco mutters. “Don’t they allow visitors in this place?”

“It’s not safe anymore. Not for most of them.” Finally, Draco looks at Harry’s face and notices the grim expression which sets his lips in a firm line. “Nowhere is safe these days.”

“My mother should be here, I can’t imagine she has anything to fear from Death Eaters.”

Harry winces. “Your mum isn’t any safer than the rest of us. The Malfoy name isn’t what it was in any circles these days and I expect she thinks I’m a better bet than Lestrange. He’s in the next room.” Harry’s lips curve into a strange, grim smile which doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s bigger than ours, of course. He gets a different standard of service.”

“Naturally.” Draco tries to process the fact that his mother seems to have more faith in Potter than the Dark Lord. He wishes he was back in Durmstrang where the Malfoy name still meant something – where he was safe – just as his mother and father intended when they sent him there as it became increasingly clear Potter wasn’t capable of saving anyone.

“It wasn’t my lot that killed your dad,” Harry interjects. “I’m sorry he’s gone.”

“Tell the truth, Potter.” Draco turns back to the ceiling and tries to fight back the wave of pain which floods through his body at the mention of his father. “You couldn’t give a damn.”

“We saved your life,” Harry continues, quietly. “Me and Hermione. We did everything we could to get you here.”

Potter’s words offer no comfort and Draco closes his eyes, a wave of fatigue making his head spin. 

“But nobody could save my father.”

Harry doesn’t respond, and Draco falls asleep to the sound of his breathing.

*

“Why are you here, anyway?” Nobody comes to check on them for days, and Draco supposes he should just be pleased someone bothered to save his life at all. Potter seems to be his usual, irritating self for the most part, with no discernible sign of injury.

“I collapsed.” Potter rubs the scar on his forehead with a frown. “I’ve had lots of headaches since the last battle. It’s no real surprise, I’m used to it. For some reason they’re not letting me go.”

Draco appraises Potter who looks well enough, if a little unshaven. “Well you look fine to me.”

“I feel fine.” Potter shrugs and looks at the notes on the end of his bed. “Keep under observation.” He snorts and flicks his wand to emit a line of sparks which curl into a spiral and stretch up to the ceiling before disappearing. “They tried to take my wand. There’s one nurse here who seems to be a bit more reliable than the rest. Half of the Healers are in Voldemort’s pocket now, we managed to get you seen by one of the few that remains loyal – or at least neutral.”

Draco fights back an involuntary shiver at the thought of how vulnerable he must have been. A hot, white light burns in the back of his mind and he can hear murmured cries and people shouting his name. He pushes the images to the back of his mind as the pain in his chest sears. 

He deals with his pain in the only way he knows how and glares at Potter who is a distraction at least. “This doesn’t make us friends.”

“No,” Potter agrees. He rolls his eyes heavenward. “Merlin forbid saving your life would change things between us.” He frowns, lost in thought. “I’ll be gone soon enough and out of your life forever.”

An unexpected chill makes Draco uneasy, and he thinks about pushing Potter. There’s something about the way he says _gone_ that sounds final – forever.

Before he can ask Potter what he means, Potter turns on his side with his back to Draco to indicate in no uncertain terms that the conversation is over.

*

When the pain in his chest begins to ease, it’s replaced by nightmares and memories of being splinched which make Draco wake with a shout in the middle of the night.

St Mungo’s is a strange, dark place and the visitors to his and Potter’s room are brief and infrequent. The sounds from the Janus Thickey Ward filter through the thin walls and the clinical squeaking of hospital shoes on highly polished floors keeps Draco alert even when he’s supposed to be sleeping. He jumps at the smallest waft of air which makes the door to their room shake lightly on its hinges, and at night he swears he can sometimes see the doorknob turned by an invisible hand on the other side. 

It doesn’t help knowing that Potter sleeps with his wand hidden under his pillow, his hand furled around it as he hovers somewhere between sleep and waking.

_Constant vigilance_.

Potter says it, once, when he thinks Draco isn’t listening. He taps his wand against the wall and stands at the window, staring out into the night. He’s always thinking and it unnerves Draco. It’s not as if Potter was ever one for pouring over books and turning war strategy over and over in his head. 

One nurse seems to know Potter and they mutter to one another, always keeping their voices low and just out of Draco’s earshot. She gives him potions which Potter encourages Draco to drink. The others, Potter tips into plant pots and makes peculiar jokes about having green fingers which Draco isn’t sure he fully understands.

“Why does anybody come here? Why do _you_ come here, if you think everyone is trying to kill you?” Draco furrows his brow as Potter pours away yet another potion and smacks his lips as if he’s finished a delicious drink.

“It puts them off their guard, thinking I’m going along with it all.” Potter places his finger to his lips as he watches Draco, and the doorknob to the room turns as the familiar _squeak, squeak_ of footsteps stops outside their room. The door doesn’t open and the footsteps begin again, and Draco releases his breath in a _whoosh_. “Besides, nobody wants me dead. At least not yet,” he finishes, grimly.

“I thought I’d find your head on a stick somewhere.” Draco pulls a face and doesn’t meet Potter’s eyes. “No offence.”

“Thanks for the concern.” Potter snorts and drums his fingers against his knee. “I don’t know what they’ve got planned for me, but I know keeping me alive and somewhere they can see me – here, Hogwarts, wherever – is better than killing me.”

“Politics, I imagine.” Draco looks at his hands and twines his fingers into his lap. “It all comes down to politics in the end. Until the Dark Lord has a firm foothold and enough people bowing and scraping to him, he won’t risk upsetting his position by killing you off. Besides, you’re hardly a threat anymore. You lost the battle – convincingly from what I gather. You’re not the beacon of hope you once were.”

“Thanks a lot.” Potter stands and begins to pace again. His shoulders tense and his eyebrows knit together in a pinched frown. The shadows in the room make his face look sharper and slimmer than usual and his eyes glimmer strangely in the fluorescent light which creeps under the bedroom door. “Whatever the reason, I don’t trust anyone here. We have medically trained witches and wizards helping us out and none of our lot come to St Mungo’s unless there’s no other choice.”

“You didn’t choose to come here?” Draco watches Potter closely as his shoulder lifts and falls in a careless shrug.

“I was already here in when it happened. About an hour after they started trying to heal you.”

“And why am _I_ here?” A wave of fury washes over Draco and he scowls at Potter. “I suppose St Mungo’s is just _fine_ for a former Death Eater, is that it?”

“That’s not it.” Potter’s voice is cold and sharper than usual.

“Then why bring me here?”

Potter shrugs again and he looks out of the window, his cheeks flushed pink. “Because you were dead. We hardly thought it mattered where you were.”

With that, Potter lifts up the quilt and slides back into bed as Draco tries to fight back the nausea which causes his stomach to twist as bile rises in his throat.

“What did they do to me?”

If Potter hears, he pretends not to and Draco is left to the silence of his thoughts.

*

Draco wakes with a start, sometime after midnight.

His body is slick with perspiration, the sheets damp from the sweat on his body. He lifts a hand to his forehead, which burns to the touch. Shaking, he turns to Potter and tries to call for help but there’s nobody there. The bed is rumpled, messy and empty as if someone left in a hurry. Draco’s body chills and he hauls himself out of bed, finally able to stand without curling in on himself in agony.

He checks the pillow, noticing Potter’s wand is missing too.

“Where the fuck are you, Potter?” The room spins before Draco’s eyes and he clutches on to the bed to stop himself from toppling over. He hates the indignity of this – of being forced to call out for Potter in the middle of the night as if Potter’s going to save him, of all people, when it seems like Potter can’t save anyone at all.

“Quickly. Come quickly.”

The door opens and light floods the room. There’s a woman in a mask, and Draco is reminded strangely of Bellatrix as waves of dark hair flow from beneath dark robes. 

“Who are you?”

“A friend.” The woman advances towards Draco and slides her hand in his. Her touch is cool and soothing, and even though he probably should, Draco is too scared to question it.

“Potter. Where’s Potter?”

“There’s no time! Have you got your wand?”

Draco nods, the wand curled in his hand as he’s taken to sleeping with it – just like Potter. With an unfamiliar tug, the room spins and St Mungo’s disappears.

*

“Essence of Dittany, you say?”

“Applied intravenously, straight into his heart. It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard of before, it should be impossible…”

“Somebody must have wanted to save Mr Malfoy rather badly. The question is _why_? What useful purpose does he serve now his father is dead and his mother is catatonic?”

“They did it because Harry asked them to – it was Parkinson’s father. He owes us a favour.”

A snarl, and then, “What the blazes is Potter doing with Parkinson? He’s not to be trusted.”

“Well Harry clearly thought he _was_. You have to trust him.” The female voice is quiet and familiar. Definitely not Bellatrix, back from the dead. Draco lies very still and listens. “Harry knows what he’s doing.”

“Potter has precious little understanding of anything.” The male voice is low, rasping and unfamiliar. It is thin and ragged, as if the effort of speaking is painful.

“If you know something, you have to tell him. _We_ have to tell him.”

“I have no idea whether I know anything of material significance or not. You can rest assured when I have fully recovered my memories I will disclose everything I manage to retrieve.” The owner of the strange voice coughs and Draco listens as he drinks something with a muttered curse. “Give this to Draco. It should suffice, for the time being. Where do you plan to take him?”

“Grimmauld Place. After that, Hogwarts.”

“Very well.” A pause. “You know what has to be done?”

“Yes.” A wand presses against Draco’s temple and before he can muster up the strength to fight back, his mind twists and turns and the last thing he hears is one word, spoken with a note of apology. “ _Obliviate_.”

*

“He’s waking up.”

“Brilliant, that’s all we need.”

“Poor thing, he looks half dead. Harry, pass me the cloth. I think he needs some soup. Ronald, get him some soup. He clearly hasn’t eaten properly for months, he’s nothing more than skin and bone…”

“Malfoy’s always been a scrawny arse. I’m not fetching him soup, bloody hell.”

“You’ll do as I tell you, Ronald Weasley. You’re not too old to be put over my knee you know.”

“Merlin’s _balls_ , mum.”

“Am I in hell?” Draco blinks his eyes open and winces when he sees a blur of ginger hair and a gormless looking Potter peering at him. He closes his eyes again and counts to ten. “Apparently, yes.”

“Shut up, prat.” Potter snorts and he pokes Draco in the side. “You should be thanking us. Molly’s been looking after you since you got here, not that she owes you anything.”

“Wonderful.” Draco opens his eyes properly and winces when he sees the look of concern on Molly Weasley’s face. “Mrs Weasley.”

“Draco.” Molly turns to someone with ginger hair Draco vaguely recognises. “Soup, Bill. Now, please.”

Bill rolls his eyes and leaves the room with a mutter about fraternising with Malfoys.

Draco looks around the room, taking in his surroundings. If he’s in the Weasley home he thinks he might just splinch his heart again. But he’s not. The room looks familiar somehow, and it feels safe – like home. “Where am I?”

“Grimmauld Place.” Potter at least, has the decency to look apologetic. “It’s where I live now.”

“I remember.” Draco resists the urge to glare at Potter, feeling somewhat outnumbered. 

“You’ll be staying here for a while, then going back to Hogwarts with the rest of us when school starts.” 

Draco narrows his eyes at Potter, who looks better than he did at St Mungo’s. He looks _good_. He’s dressed scruffily, with ripped jeans and a t-shirt with a picture of a Muggle band on the front but it suits him. He seems chattier than before, with an easy smile and an air of confidence about him. He reminds Draco of the picture of his father which sits next to a large Quidditch trophy in Hogwarts, forever young and smiling as if he didn’t have a care in the world. 

“I was quite happy at Durmstrang. Mother and father thought that was best.” The casual mention of his father sends a wave of pain through Draco’s body and he steadies himself against it, determined not to cry in front of Potter.

Potter and Weasley exchange glances. “I don’t think your mum wants you so far away anymore.” Potter clears his throat and runs his hand through his hair with a rueful smile. “You’ve been entrusted into our care for the time being.”

“You can’t even take care of yourself.” Draco rolls his eyes and falls back on the pillows with a huff. “Where _is_ mother?”

There’s an uncomfortable pause which makes Draco clench his hands in the sheet.

“She’s with the _Dark Lord_ \- that’s what your lot call him, isn’t it, Malfoy?” Weasley’s voice holds a note of scorn, and in that moment Draco thinks he’s never hated someone so much in all of his life. 

“We speak to her when we can,” Potter clarifies, contrite. “It’s safer for her there for now. Besides, the magic on the Manor is pretty powerful. The property went to your mother in the event of your death. Whatever happened to you was enough to confuse the magic sufficiently to leave her the rightful owner, and no amount of magic can undo that. Voldemort needs her there so _he_ can be there, and to leave to come here…it would be suicide. For all of us.”

“They killed my father. How is she _safer_ at the Manor?” Draco forces out his words. “And why don’t I have to join her?”

“Because no one cares, Malfoy.” Weasley’s voice is unusually cold, and laced with derision. “You’re no threat to them, and you’re not important enough to kill.”

“Ron…” Potter’s voice holds a note of caution, but even he doesn’t leap to Draco’s defence.

“It’s more than he deserves, Harry and you know it,” Weasley mutters.

“Still, we’re here now.” Potter sighs and places a piping hot mug of soup on the bedside cabinet. “Let’s make the best of it.”

“Why did you take me out of St Mungo’s?” A hazy memory like a half-remembered dream, flashes through Draco’s mind and then disappears completely.

“Lestrange.” Potter speaks with a low, furious tone and his eyes flash with anger. Draco forces back any thought that perhaps Potter could be a decent hero after all – that way madness lies. He won’t place his hope in Harry Potter, not like the rest of the idiots in wizarding Britain. “He’s bloody insane. Parkinson’s dad got wind of something planned, so I had to leave but I doubt he’d have cared if I was in the room or not.”

“You came back for me.” The realisation that Potter had contemplated leaving without him makes Draco’s blood run cold. He’s about to berate Potter when Molly Weasley places a thermometer in his mouth.

“I must insist you eat something, Draco. Your mother would never forgive me if I allowed you to starve under my care.”

“I’m hardly starving,” Draco mumbles around the offending implement in his mouth. Despite his words, the soothing scent of soup fills Draco’s nostrils and his stomach growls. The thermometer is pulled out of his mouth with a pop, and he sighs. Shouting at Potter can wait until he’s eaten. 

He wraps his hands around the mug and takes a sip, letting the hot liquid warm his throat. He has the strangest desire to cry and he fights back the tears which prick the back of his eyes, blinking furiously. His gaze falls on some tatty school robes with a Slytherin tie that looks as if it has several ink stains on the tip. He struggles into a seating position, ignoring protests from those gathered around the bedside and points at the uniform with a shudder. “I am _not_ wearing that. My mother can send my uniform, surely?”

Potter coughs, Bill snorts and Weasley glowers at Draco looking very much as if he wants to punch him in the nose.

Mrs Weasley gives Draco a mollifying pat on the arm. “Don’t be silly, dear. Of course you have your own robes to wear. Those are Ronald’s.”

Draco stares at Ron who turns a deep shade of red and speaks with a low growl. “Not a word.”

“Fancy dress, Weasley?” Draco tries to keep the horror out of his voice as he looks at the shabby robes again.

“Not quite.” Potter winces and stands with a stretch. The movement reveals his toned, tanned stomach and Draco shifts uncomfortably in his bed. The peculiar heat rising in his body is the last thing he needs. The _very_ last thing. “Ron’s in Slytherin now. They put all the Purebloods there after the last battle. He shrugs at Draco. “Don’t worry, I’m still in Gryffindor so you can take the piss out of me as usual.”

“I can’t believe this.” Draco can’t seem to tear his eyes from Potter’s. He wonders, not for the first time, if this is all a very bad dream. “Are you _sure_ I’m not in hell?”

Potter looks away, his jaw set. 

“I’m not making any promises.”

*

Draco is thankfully left to his own devices shortly after finishing his soup. Potter and Weasley leave together, heads bowed in whispered conversation. Molly tries to tuck Draco in until he bats her hands away crossly, and the other Weasleys file out without so much as a nod in Draco’s direction.

He stares at the Slytherin uniform hanging on the wardrobe and pulls the sheets up to his chin.

This is all Potter’s fault. If only he could have been a better hero none of this would have happened. Draco wouldn’t be here, surrounded by Weasleys. _Slytherin_ Weasleys. His father wouldn’t be dead. His mother would be here with him, making him hot chocolate and talking about the future.

An image of Potter’s easy smile and long legs crossed at the ankle flickers through Draco’s mind. A wave of heat and shame courses through his body and he picks up his wand with a snarl, sending a violent spell towards the mirror until it shatters into hundreds of pieces.

When nobody comes running, Draco sends the shattered pieces of glass into the air and watches them as they hang, suspended, glinting strangely in the watery moonlight.

With a sigh, he lets the pieces clatter to the floor and burrows under the duvet. He pulls the sheets over his head and tries to stop his racing mind from going in directions Draco doesn’t want to follow.

It’s time he started making his own luck. Damn Potter and his friends. Draco knows how this works, and he can be the perfect Slytherin again. He’ll show Weasley. He’ll show all of them how strong he can be without them.

He doesn’t need Potter.

He _doesn’t_.

As the moon passes behind a cloud and the darkness of the night deepens, Draco begins to formulate a plan.


	2. Felix Felicis

_“It's a lonely life by candlelight. To make believe, you talk to the dead. I've wandered, seen visions, I've gone off the deep end, I'm out there, you'll find me, I never lost that easy…_

(Cold War Kids – Lost That Easy)

The cauldron nearly bubbles over, but Draco moves quickly to turn down the heat and the potion settles. He stirs anti-clockwise three times, adds the last of the aconite and then stirs clockwise four times. Even in the dim light of what used to be the Room of Hidden Things before he destroyed it, Draco can see that the colour and consistency are right: a slightly viscous, perfect pale blue, and when he inhales, the soft scent of roses fills his nose.

It’s such a light scent for such a powerful piece of magic. He’s created it on his own, with no help from the buffoons masquerading as professors, but it still surprises him that something that carries such intense power can smell so sweet. It reminds him of his mother’s garden, the way when he was a child the scent would carry to his bedroom on the breeze and would ease his troubled sleep.

The garden can’t possibly still be there, or at least it isn’t like it once was when his mother would spend hours tending and cultivating the buds. It was something she never entrusted to the house-elves, which Draco never really understood until now. There was something strangely soothing about cultivating something with one’s own two hands.

His hand shakes only a little, which is a decided improvement, as he levitates the second cauldron and pours in the honey-coloured calming draught. Draco pauses before he begins to stir until the tremor subsides and glances towards the door. The door flickers and some of the hidden things shift from their piles. He doesn’t have much time.

Draco hurriedly decants the combination of the two potions into a large vial, shrinks it down and slips it into his pocket, just in time for the door to open. Potter barrels in, followed by Longbottom and the girl Weasley. _Ginny_ , Draco thinks; he has to remember to distinguish amongst them now, his Housemates.

“We just need to get a hold of the passwo-- Malfoy?” Potter cuts himself off when he notices that Draco is present. The Room has become what Draco imagines the Gryffindor common room to look like, all squashy chairs and red and gold accents. “What are you...how did you get in here?”

“Magic, Potter,” Draco replies, with a roll of his eyes. The Room has been unable to sustain the separation between the Room of Hidden Things and the Room of Requirement since the incident, but it still functions just as it did, bending its shape and reading the wishes of those that attempted entrance. “I was working on something,” he adds, carefully vague.

“That’s...er, all right fine,” Potter dismisses easily, obviously preoccupied with whatever was happening before he and the others sought out the relative safety of the Room.

Ginny and Longbottom exchange unreadable looks, before she takes a seat nearest the fireplace. She loosens the green-and-silver tie around her neck, and Draco only just manages to keep the disgust he feels from manifesting on his face. Though it’s been several weeks since the Resorting took effect, he still sometimes cannot believe that people like the Weasleys and Longbottom have joined him in Slytherin House, even when he looks across the dormitory and sees the tense set of freckled shoulders or one of those hideous lumpy jumpers thrown onto the floor.

Potter’s pacing before the fireplace, tense and magnetic, and not for the first time since school started again, Draco has to take a shuddery breath in and out and consciously look away. But then, Potter’s always drawn his attention before, stolen Draco’s focus with just a look or a casual insult thrown his way. So much has changed, but Draco suspects Potter’s ability to draw him in never will -- no matter how much Draco hates it.

“What happened?” Draco then asks, not that he wants to know or cares. It isn’t for him, all these secret heroics. He doesn’t need Potter to get by, no matter that Potter drew him out of the fire. He’s got all the luck he needs; self-preservation and self-reliance were some of Slytherin’s prized traits, and Draco is nothing if not a perfect Slytherin.

Potter looks up at him, eyes flashing from the reflected firelight, and cocks his head, looking for all the world like someone’s lost crup rather than the supposed ( _failed_ , he thinks) Saviour of wizarding Britain. But Draco knows better now than to think that Potter’s daft. Potter seems to decide something, and he says, “We’re still trying to--”

“--Harry!” Ginny interrupts him. She darts a glare in Draco’s direction, and he sneers at her in return.

“Ginny, you know as well as I do that he’s not a threat anymore,” Potter replies.

It stings more than Draco would like to admit; he could be a threat, even though he’s lost whatever taste he might have had for the promises the Dark Lord had made. But just because he isn’t a threat to Potter’s little organization doesn’t mean that he’s a part of it either. He wants to say that, spit it with the same venom he had only two years ago, but instead, he takes in the world-weary look on Potter’s face and feels the dull ache in his heart that reminds him of just how much he’s lost in the last few months, as well as how little he really has to gain.

He presses a hand to his chest against the ache and watches as Potter’s eyes dart there as well. “I’m fine,” Draco says, and the reassurance in his own tone surprises him. Potter couldn’t possibly _care_ , unless it’s in some misguided sense of duty. But Potter’s ahead in the game of their mutual life-saving, and so it should be Draco’s turn to express his concern for Potter’s well-being -- if he was at all interested in evening the score, of course, which he emphatically isn’t.

So he doesn’t know what stops him from adding a snappish comment or a practiced sneer, and instead, he just locks eyes with Potter, who regards him carefully for a moment.

“He’s one of ours now,” Potter then continues, a grim smile settling on his lips, as he turns to Ginny again, “whether he likes it or not.”

Draco barely holds back the wince; he isn’t sure how he feels about being so claimed. He slips a hand discreetly into his robes-pocket and fingers the vial, and he swears he can almost feel the magic within the potion coursing out and giving him strength. He moves forward then with only slightly uncertain steps into the circle around the fireplace and takes a seat on the couch. At the very least, he supposes it can’t hurt to listen to Potter’s scheme, whatever it is this time.

Being a part of Potter’s inner circle was all he ever wanted once upon a time, after all.

*

Professor Carrow slashes her wand in a fierce cutting motion, causing a dangerous emission of green sparks. Her toady face looks nearly puce, and her teeth are bared in a grimace of fury. “Stupid _boy_!” she spits, as she barrels through the room towards the sparring pair of Finnigan and MacMillan, her magic crackling dangerously in her wake.

To their credit, both the former Hufflepuff and the Gryffindor stand their ground, MacMillan with his self-important chest puffed out, ready at the defense of his partner, and Finnigan looking ready to strike as soon as he has the right leverage (or perhaps apologise, if he’s smart). Not that it will do either of them much good; Finnigan stepped in it, and Carrow has absolutely no sense of mercy.

“Didn’t I say you were only to disarm? Didn’t I say you were to be careful? But you stupid half-blood abominations know _nothing_ about following direction and submitting to your betters! I had thought you’d have learnt by now, but you’re just as stupid as you’ve always been!” Spittle sprays from her lips as she continues to advance through the room.

“Professor, I’m perfectly all right,” MacMillan pipes up, quiet but solid. “It’s barely a scratch. No harm done at all, really.”

“Any drop of pure blood spilt is a waste!” she screams. She halts before Finnigan and pokes him in the chest with her wand. “You’d dare spill pure blood?”

Finnigan opens his mouth to answer, and Draco recognises the streak of Gryffindor defiance in his eyes that means he’s about to reply with something smart instead of something to save his own hide. But Carrow doesn’t even bother to let him defend himself. With another quick flick of her wand and a shouted curse, Finnigan is unceremoniously levitated into the air and thrown backward. He slumps down the wall and doesn’t get up, but no one else dares make a move to his rescue.

Perhaps Potter would, Draco thinks, if he weren’t in the hospital wing again.

“Professor, please!” MacMillan says, holding out his right arm to show her that indeed the cutting spell that Finnigan had used had barely grazed him.

“And you!” She whirls around and zeroes in on MacMillan. “What kind of a pure-blood cannot manage a simple shield? Are you certain that your blood runs back through the ages, or are you some kind of imposter?”

MacMillan visibly pales, but he straightens up tall and proud. “I was...I was merely caught off guard, Professor,” he replies. “It won’t happen again.”

Carrow’s lip curls up in an ugly sneer. “Filthy halflings,” she then mutters, as she turns on her heel and begins the march back up the length of the classroom. Her voice gets fainter the further she gets from them, but Draco knows exactly what she’s on about -- it’s the same rant almost every day. “Sneaky, beastly little things...don’t know why the Master allows them at all...”

Draco turns back to his own partner and raises his wand, determinedly not looking at where Finnigan is slouched against the wall, but Parvati’s worrying her lower lip with her teeth and darting glances at her injured friend. “Don’t do anything stupid, Patil,” Draco murmurs.

The bit of advice slips from his lips before he can think to stop himself. He must be getting soft.

“Someone has to do something,” Parvati hisses between her teeth.

“Someone will,” Draco replies. “But not you. You don’t want that attention on yourself.”

The childish dueling slowly resumes, and Draco glances over to see that MacMillan has gone over to Finnigan. He appears to be attempting an _Ennervate_ without much success. It’s unsurprising; it seems as though they’ve all regressed in their magical abilities, but Draco suspects it has more to do with the stress and the lack of proper instruction than because any of them are actually losing touch with their magic. The thought that he would stop being about to perform magic fills Draco with dread, and he forces himself to think about anything else.

But unfortunately, his thoughts land on Potter’s conspicuous absence from class, and not for the first time since the dueling began does his wand go flying from his grip into Parvati’s outstretched hand. He Summons it back idly, as he wonders what happened this time to land Potter in the hospital wing.

Draco knows about the headaches, but he’d also thought that Potter was stronger than that. He’d seen Potter fight off the Imperius Curse back when they were just children, and so it was strange that a little forehead pain could so incapacitate him. Unless it was all part of Potter’s ridiculous plan, of course.

A loud bang followed by a bout of laughter draws Draco out of his own duel again, and he glances across the room just in time to see Blaise throw his arm around Weasley’s shoulders. “Well done, Weasley,” Blaise says. “Knocked him right on his bloated arse!”

Goyle is indeed sprawled out on the ground, dazed, and when Weasley reaches out a hand to help him up, he takes it with a grateful grin. “I’m not a bloated arse, you bloody ponce,” Goyle then says, knocking Blaise’s shoulder.

“Weasley!” Carrow shrieks, and for a brief moment, the entire room holds its breath.

Draco recognises the look on Weasley’s face, the determination and the hint of cockiness that was so often reflected on his own features in class. It looks so out of place amongst the freckles.

Carrow nods slowly and she smiles with all her disgusting teeth on display. “Very good work, my boy. You’re improving.”

He glances over at MacMillan and Finnigan, who has finally revived and then back at Weasley, Goyle and Blaise. The double standard of the whole thing is blatant, but Draco daren’t say a word. His advice to Patil was sound, and he stands by it, even though a small, quiet part of him thinks that maybe it would be better if he spoke up. He’s not ready yet, though. The urge is there, but he’s not strong enough.

Disgusted with himself, Draco grips his wand tighter and wills away the errant good thoughts. He’s not that person. He’s not a hero. There are no heroes anymore.

He watches as Blaise slips his hand into Weasley’s hair and ruffles the lurid red strands, and Draco then forces himself to look away again. It’s a revolting display, and worse, the twinge of irrational jealousy he feels makes him sick to his stomach. He doesn’t need Blaise or Greg anymore, and he certainly doesn’t need or want Weasley, no matter that Weasley seems to be insinuating himself into the void Draco left. Draco doesn’t need anything like that anymore. He can do it all on his own.

“Draco, you’re shaking.”

He blinks slowly, coming back to himself. “I’m fine,” he says. He grips his wand tighter again and shouts an _Expelliarmus_ before Parvati can even get back into the proper dueling stance. Her wand sails across the air and he catches it deftly.

*

Potter drops his chin, letting his head fall forward with what looks like a long sigh. Weariness is evident in every inch of him, but he’s out of the hospital at least, which is more than Draco can say for some of his other classmates. If it’s not detention, it’s the hospital wing, it seems.

He glances around and then up at the Head Table, but no one is paying him any attention, so he carefully removes the vial from up his sleeve and tips a few drops into his pumpkin juice. Not for the first time since school began again, Draco wishes that those of age were allowed something a little stronger because firewhiskey would have made the taste a bit more bearable. Perhaps he can tweak the taste on the next batch without diluting the potency…

“Lost in thought, Malfoy?”

Startled, Draco palms the vial and turns his head just so, hoping that he hasn’t given anything away. His heart thunders in his chest, and he feels the worrying ache. “What do you want, Greg?”

Goyle sits down next to him with an audible thunk and begins immediately to pile his dinner onto his plate. “Nothin’,” he replies, shrugging. “You just looked all, dunno, far away, I suppose.”

Forcing himself to calm down, Draco picks up his cup and takes a long drink. He winces only slightly at the taste and sets it back down on the table. “Why are you even talking to me?” he asks, deflecting. He doesn’t care, having long since given up on the idea that anything would be like it was when he was younger, but he supposes he is a bit curious.

“Dunno.” Goyle pops a hunk of bread into his mouth and chews slowly. “Just thought I’d sit here. No one else ever does.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Very astute of you,” he murmurs, as he picks up his cup again and drains the rest of it in one long swallow. He exhales slowly after he finishes it, and after a long moment, the energy begins to crackle under his skin, and he feels the sweet urge to get up and move, to do something unexpected, but bold; something he might not normally ever have done, but something that’s necessary -- something that’s going to make him feel so good.

He finishes his dinner quickly with minimal chatter from Greg at his side, and the adrenaline humming in his veins pushes him immediately to his feet and carries him out of the Great Hall. He hears the little whispers and feels the eyes on him, but they don’t mean anything. It’s mindless, all of it, and he doesn’t have to care about anything other than what his mind is telling him is the next move.

It’s probably too cold for a swim, he thinks distantly, as his feet carry him all the way to the Black Lake. It’s too dark too, but that’s what a _Lumos_ is for, isn’t it?

The lake ripples as a cool breeze picks up while Draco removes his robes, trousers and jumper. He throws them unceremoniously onto the bank and then plops down to look at himself. He remembers briefly a day earlier in the summer, staring at the lake before the Patronus came, but it doesn’t matter now. That was an entire lifetime ago. It’s so dark that his reflection looks murky, and he laughs a little. He looks so unpolished. Whatever would father think?

He then tips forward into the lake without a further thought.

He’s dripping wet and shivering, but completely exhilarated as he walks back into the Great Hall, later. But his good humour evaporates almost immediately when he sees the group of students crowded around in a circle down the hall on the way to the Hufflepuff dormitories.

The sudden fear spreads through him as if it were injected straight into his veins; everything is more intense, icy cold, but no longer the debilitating thing that left him a miserable wreck of a boy standing in front of a mirror in the girls’ toilet, sobbing out his failures to a ghost and lashing out at the one ridiculous constant in his life. Fear now is a reminder that he’s still a person. He’s still alive, by some miracle. He’s been saved countless times by Potter now, and he can no longer just get by. He has to return the favor.

Draco wanders over to the edge of the little circle, but he doesn’t need to squeeze through to see because he knows what he’ll find. It will be the same as last time and the time before that -- the eyes wide open and darting back and forth, the body wracked by tremors, and the silent screaming because the monster is still there inside their heads.

He finds Potter by instinct, inexorably drawn by the magnitude of his power. Potter looks up as if he can feel Draco’s scrutiny, meets his eyes and slowly shakes his head. Draco inhales a breath, holds it until his lungs feel fit to burst, and then quietly exhales.

Blaise saunters up with Pansy at his side. “Move along now. There’s nothing to see. Back to your dormitories,” he drawls.

“By order of the Head Girl and Boy,” Pansy adds, simpering and obsequious. Draco wonders if he was as bad, or if he was worse.

“But who did this?” Draco doesn’t recognise the student who asks the question.

Pansy turns to the girl with a sneer. “Go to your dormitory and stay there until the Headmaster says otherwise,” she orders, before drawing her arm through Blaise’s and leading him off toward the stairs to their suite.

The first whispers and murmurs begin, and when Draco is noticed, they change, saying that he must be up to his old tricks (even though he never did anything like this, was never capable of anything like this). Of course they suspect him. Who else?

He wonders if he’s ever going to fit in anywhere anymore.

Potter’s eyes find him again, and Draco meets them immediately. He sucks in a breath at the intensity he finds there, determination and fear in equal parts. Draco shivers, and he cannot wholly blame it on the chill from his swim.

He turns away then and begins the walk down the hall towards the stairs to the Slytherin dorms. A sudden twinge in his chest causes him to stop, and he presses a shaking hand to his sternum, as he takes a deep breath in and out. He counts to ten and when he feels sufficiently calm, he starts moving again.

“Malfoy.”

Potter’s voice is low and steady just behind him. Draco only half-turns, afraid of what he might see...of what Potter might see in him. “What do you want?”

“I think we should talk,” Potter replies. “I think...I think there’s something you should know.”

He wants to say _no_. He wants to scream it at the top of his lungs, shout that he doesn’t care about Potter or about anything other than making it through the year alive and safe. He wants to feel like he did only moments ago in the cold lakewater, alive and alert and free.

But instead, he says, “Okay.”


	3. Dumbledore's Army

_“I have lost myself again, lost myself and I am nowhere to be found...Be my friend, hold me, wrap me up, unfold me. I am small and needy, warm me up and breathe me…”_

(Sia – Breathe Me)

They walk through the corridors in silence, while the portraits which still remain scurry from their frames or feign sleep at the sound of footsteps on the stone. There is none of the usual excited chatter from the portraits or uncomfortable chill in the air when the ghosts swoop through the corridors. Even the moving stairs creak slowly, moving left and right and up and down free from students stopping to chat and exchanging easy banter with the portraits or one another. Even the dead are fleeing Hogwarts these days. 

An icy fist clutches at Draco’s heart when they stop outside the Room of Hidden Things. He tries not to bring any attention to the potion in his pocket, wondering if Potter has discovered his secret. His throat dry, he follows Potter’s movements and ducks inside. 

“What’s he doing here?” Weasley gets to his feet, wand extended. His face is set in a scowl and he eyes Draco with a look of distrust.

“He’s part of this now, whether we like it or not. Besides, we need all the help we can get.” Potter stands his ground, Weasley growls and sits down muttering about ferrets. Draco wonders if Potter has any idea how successful a Slytherin Weasley has become. Blaise helped him with some charms to improve the state of his uniform and even Parkinson hangs off Weasley’s every word when he holds court in the Slytherin Common Room. 

Draco tries to keep himself from snapping, his anger flaring at the faces staring back at him with suspicion. 

Weasley sits next to his sister, who places a cautious hand on Potter’s arm and murmurs something Draco doesn’t quite catch. He fights back a spark of jealousy as Potter whispers back, his lips almost brushing the shell of her ear. She laughs and shrugs, taking a seat in between Weasley and Longbottom and Draco’s anger mounts.

“We can trust him. Isn’t that right, Harry?” Lovegood gives Draco a beaming smile. Her hair is dull and lifeless and her face is pale to the point of translucency. A deep scar runs from the corner of her left eye and snakes along her cheek in deep, violent red. He had heard she was one of the Carrows’ favourites. Sometimes her cries could be heard down the corridors, when the school seemed to shiver and bend under the force of her anguish. Draco sometimes wonders on those dark nights if the magic of Hogwarts sympathised with Luna – if the walls feel the pain of the Cruciatus levelled at her repeatedly. 

“I don’t think we have any choice. Besides, Hermione thinks it’s a good idea too.” Potter gestures to an empty chair, taking charge. “Have a seat, Malfoy.”

Draco takes a seat and pointedly moves the chair a little away from the assortment of former Gryffindors, Ravenclaws and eager looking Hufflepuffs gathered to hear Potter speak. “Am I going to find this motivational?” He mutters, casting a look up at Potter.

Potter ignores him and rummages in his satchel for a jagged shard of mirrored glass, covered with fingerprints. “Here.” He thrusts it towards Draco, ignoring the mutters from those gathered in the room. “These are two way mirrors. We use them to communicate. I’ll show you how after the meeting.”

Weasley begins to pace, his cheeks hot red. “When did you speak to Hermione?”

“Yesterday evening.” Potter sighs and he reaches for Weasley, stilling his movements. “Ron. Stop. She’s okay and she misses you.”

“Too busy being a good Pureblood Slytherin to speak to your Mudblood girlfriend?” Draco can’t help himself and sneers at Ron who lunges towards Draco with a curse.

“Stop!” Potter hauls Ron back and pushes him, none too gently. “ _Don’t_. We can’t have you getting into trouble for throttling Malfoy.” Potter turns his anger on Draco, his eyes flashing. “And Hermione saved your life. _Again_. I have it on pretty good authority she doesn’t like being called a Mudblood and as she’s not around to defend herself, there are plenty of us here who can throw a decent punch too.”

“And the rest,” Weasley mutters.

“ _Fine_.” Draco settles back with a huff. “Where is Granger, anyway?”

“She wasn’t allowed back to Hogwarts.” Potter’s eyebrows knit into a tight frown and he releases Weasley who reluctantly sits once again. “There’s no place for Muggle borns at Hogwarts these days. She forges documents to give other Muggle born witches and wizards proof of magical lineage. It’s easy enough to do when being Pureblood has nothing to do with blood or genetics _at all_.” Potter looks angry. “Even if she can’t be here, at least they won’t miss out on years of education. Who knows how long it will be before things get back to normal?”

An irritating rush of admiration for Potter causes Draco to duck his head in case anyone can see the flush in his cheeks. It’s not a question of _if_ with Potter. There’s no such thing as giving up. It’s all a question of _when_. As much as he hates to admit it, he’d rather fight with Potter than against him – even if he is an arrogant prick at times.

“She’s extraordinary.” Weasley looks like his old self again just for a moment. His cold expression softens and his lips curve into a smile. Draco bites back a barbed comment and nods, stiffly.

“If anyone could be out there helping the disadvantaged, I might have suspected it would be Granger.” Sensing another shift of angry stares in his direction, he quickly adds, “and she’s smart enough to pull it off, too.”

“Smarter than you’ll ever be.” Ginny tips her chin in Draco’s direction, her expression fiery.

“This isn’t helping anyone.” Potter swipes his hand through the air and the low murmurs of dissatisfaction fade away. 

“He could be useful,” Finnigan pipes up, unexpectedly. “He’s the only proper Slytherin here.”

Draco glances at Weasley, and isn’t so sure about that anymore. A rush of pleasure warms his cheeks and he gives Finnigan a careful nod of gratitude.

“I agree.” Potter speaks firmly, the gathered students his captive audience once more. “Malfoy’s dad was killed by the same people we’re fighting and his mum’s stuck in the Manor witnessing Merlin knows what. If anyone has an incentive to help us, he does.”

Draco’s heart pounds in his chest at the mention of his mother, and he resists the urge to reach for his potion to take a comforting swig of the sweet-smelling liquid. His hands tremble, and he twines them together in his lap before anyone can notice. He has the strangest desire to make Potter proud of him – to prove to them all that he’s a better man than they think. He recalls twisting his broom into the sky and the look of pride on his father’s face, and he wants to feel that again – just one more time. 

He looks around the room, meeting the gazes of those gathered there head on and he takes his decision. “I want to help. I’m in. What do you need me to do?”

*

After being briefed on becoming a fully-fledged member of Dumbledore’s Army (which seems to involve lots of meetings and subterfuge with Potter being insufferably heroic) Draco turns the mirror in his hands and begins to relax. Potter’s easy manner has a calming effect on the whole room, and the small group turns their discussions away from Draco towards the latest attack.

“It’s the fourth one in as many months.” Draco isn’t used to seeing Longbottom speak firmly, his eyes flashing and his jaw set in a firm line. He looks almost like Potter, rough with stubble and dignified in righteous anger. _Almost_. Draco is starting to realise that as much as it pains him to admit it, there’s no one quite like Potter.

“You still suspect the Death Eaters?” Potter looks uncertain and Longbottom nods, firmly.

“Who else? They have access to the school and nobody else would think of doing something like that. It’s a message to all of us - half-bloods are in danger at Hogwarts.”

“I’m not sure.” Potter shakes his head as if trying to clear a fog. “Didn’t you see how the Professors tried to usher us away? I don’t think it’s a message at all. They send public messages - Morsmorde over the Quidditch World Cup, Muggle killings, detentions and discipline with Unforgivables. It’s not like there’s anyone holding them to account these days.”

Longbottom ponders for a moment. “Well it’s hardly going to be McGonagall. Or Snape.”

“Snape’s dead.” Weasley says it as if he’s talking about the weather, and he and Potter exchange a fleeting look which makes Draco ball his hands into tight fists. _You know nothing about him_ , he wants to say, but doesn’t. The flash of green and the carefully enunciated _Avada Kedavra_ make Draco wince, and the image of Dumbledore falling through the air makes his stomach turn.

A gust of air passes through the room, Potter taps his wand against his chair and Draco is wrenched back into the meeting once more where the air is thick with tension and only Lovegood looks happy to be there.

“It could be one of us.” Luna smiles and Ginny noticeably bristles. Draco is thankful that at least Lovegood doesn’t seem to be focusing on him. “They do still use Imperio, you know.” She looks serene at the thought, as if being placed under the Imperius Curse is a pleasant experience. “We can’t assume it’s someone obvious, just because bad things are happening.”

“Don’t be daft.” Weasley’s voice is hoarse and he looks around the room. “How could it be one of _us_?”

The image of a young body arching and shaking fills Draco’s mind and he shivers. The wide-eyed stare of the latest victim is burned onto his brain and he can’t seem to erase it, no matter how many potions he takes.

“This is nonsense,” Longbottom insists. Too quick to respond, Draco thinks. He’s nervous, and his eyes dart from Ginny to Harry and back again. When his gaze lands on Ginny again, she refuses to meet his eyes. He turns to Potter, and points in Draco’s direction. “It’s what happens when you bring people we can’t trust into the group, Harry. No one knows where they are. Malfoy’s never done anything to prove any of us can trust him. Why should we start now?”

Potter looks tired for the first time since Draco saw him at the hospital. He rubs his forehead and winces. “What happened to trusting me?”

“You’ve been making some bad decisions, lately.” Weasley is on his feet again, pointedly avoiding looking at Draco and focusing solely on Potter. “You haven’t been well, mate. Perhaps you need a break.”

“A break?” Potter’s voice cracks and he laughs without humour. “A break from what? From trying to stay alive? Trust me, I’d like nothing better than to have a break from all of this, but where does that leave everyone? Shacklebolt put me in charge of the Hogwarts operation and-”

Longbottom stops Potter in his tracks. “But I doubt Shacklebolt thought we’d end up working with every former Death Eater that comes back to Hogwarts. Maybe Ron’s right, Harry. It’s all a bit bigger than Dumbledore’s Army now. People are getting hurt. Our friends are getting hurt.” 

Or killed, Draco wants to add. Images of his father and Crabbe fill his mind but he doubts Dumbledore’s Army give two hoots about the fallen soldiers from the wrong side of the war. 

“Maybe one of us could help, just for a while.” Longbottom’s still speaking, warming to his theme. He looks around the room for support, but those gathered refuse to meet his eyes. “Gin?”  
Ginny shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Her cheeks heat as she looks up, and she meets Longbottom’s stare head on. “Don’t make me choose between my friends.”

“Someone has to,” Weasley notes. He throws his hands up and sits again with a shake of his head. “My vote’s with Hermione.” He scowls and looks away from Potter. “I know what she’d say.”

“She’d say how bloody stupid you’re all being.” Potter looks weary. “If you want someone else to be in charge then it’s alright by me. We’re supposed to be in this together. Neville? Ron? One of you should do it, if that’s what everyone wants.”

“I don’t.” Ginny speaks up, finally. “I trust Harry with my life.”

Draco avoids Potter’s eyes and turns the mirror in his hands. A flash of black robes obscure the silvery glass and a flicker of dark, untamed hair. He looks up and nods. “So do I.”

Draco’s interjection seems to floor Weasley, who studies him shrewdly. After a moment’s pause, he sighs. “Yeah, me too. ‘Course I do. I know Hermione would tell me I’m behaving like a right prat.” He gives Potter a sheepish grin. “Mates?”

“Bloody idiot.” Potter grins back at Weasley and Draco resists the urge to roll his eyes. Potter offers his hand to Longbottom, flashing him his usual easy smile and looking more like the Potter of old. “And us too?”

“Best mates. I trust you, Harry. We all do.” Longbottom shakes Potter’s hand quickly, a dull flush rising in his cheeks. Draco’s eyes narrow because there’s something going on with Longbottom, he’s sure of it. He’s too twitchy around Potter, and he can’t seem to meet his eyes.

“Let’s carry on.” Potter moves the discussion along quickly, and the tension in the room eases.

Draco continues to watch Luna, largely to distract himself from Potter’s heroics and the nauseating Gryffindor bonding. She sends a series of sparks into the air with a contented hum. The sparks turn into butterflies which flutter around their heads and then fall to the floor, to break into smithereens of colourful china. He had heard rumour she was slowly losing her mind after being subjected to prolonged torture. Mind you, Luna’s already been strange, and Draco isn’t sure he can tell who’s sane and who isn’t anymore. Not now Weasley is the self-proclaimed King of Slytherin, and Longbottom is brave enough to challenge Potter’s leadership.

Draco listens as Potter outlines his strategy and thinks about going back to the lake, deciding that next time he might not bother coming up for air.

*

Even as newly appointed Slytherins, there’s still something distinctly Gryffindor about Potter, Weasley and Longbottom. They strategise as Gryffindors, which seems to involve very little true strategy at all. They’re full of impulsive plans which involve throwing their lives on the line and taking enormous risks at every juncture. They lack the subtlety of true Slytherins, and the sense of self-preservation which took Draco to Durmstrang when Malfoy Manor started to burn.

Draco’s breath leaves him in a rush, a wave of nostalgia overwhelming him. He realises how much he misses lazy evenings with Crabbe and Goyle flanking his side, a letter from his father in his lap. In those days everyone listened to Draco. Now he’s just picking up the crumbs Potter leaves for him, trying to find a place where he fits when nothing is the right shape anymore. 

The Hufflepuffs are just as brave and foolhardy as the Gryffindors, and the Ravenclaws are the only ones with any caution. Apart from Lovegood. She just watches Draco with a look which is so bright and so _good_ it sends a pulse of hot shame through Draco’s veins. There was a time when he would have watched her tortured with cool detachment. There was a time when he would have pretended hearing someone scream didn’t send him running to the bathroom to empty his stomach until his body shook with dry heaves and wracking sobs. There was a time Draco would have protected himself above all else. Just as his father had always taught him.

“Malfoy?”

Draco looks up to find everybody staring. Weasley’s face twists and Potter’s expression flickers as he meets Draco’s eyes. 

“I think you’re thinking about this all wrong.” Draco winces at the hesitation in his voice, fumbling and uncertain. He pulls himself straight in his chair and brushes his hand over his trouser leg to bide more time. He pretends Potter is Crabbe, Weasley is Goyle and remembers the days when people cared what Draco thought about anything. His voice steadies. “You’re planning how to win a battle, not how to win a war. One small victory will only get you so far. It’s more likely to get you killed – or worse.”

“You don’t want to be part of the raid on Borgin and Burkes?” Potter’s eyebrows lift and he contemplates Draco, his expression shrewd.

“’Course he doesn’t. It’s where he buys his Christmas presents,” Weasley mutters and it earns him an elbow in the side from Ginny.

“Give him a moment. We’re dealing with Slytherins here, remember. Draco could help.”

Weasley sits back with a huff and Potter waves his hand, as if encouraging Draco to continue.

“Borgin isn’t worth the risk. He is nothing more than a hoarder of trinkets and childish magic tricks.”

“I thought your father was on pretty good terms with him.” Weasley folds his arms and eyes Draco with suspicion. “Half of the stuff from the Manor went to Borgin and Burkes, I heard.”

Draco swallows back the emotion which rises to the surface when Weasley mentions his father. He shakes his head and his lips curve into a humourless smile, directed at Weasley. He keeps his tone cool and disdainful. “Not all of it. None of the more _valuable_ items. Most traditional wizarding familiars have vaults for those. Full ones.” Draco allows himself a sneer and it feels _good_ to see the spots of pink flare in Weasley’s cheeks. “Besides, do you really believe the Dark Lord will have allowed anything of value to his cause to remain in the possession of a charlatan?”

“Hermione thinks there might be something there.” Potter looks from Draco to Weasley. “Something important. Ron?”

“I think Hermione’s always right.” Weasley shrugs and then waves at Draco. “It’s possible her source has less up to date information, I suppose. Given their…circumstances.”

Potter’s face flares with anger and he’s back to turning his wand in his hands, and pacing the room like a caged lion cub. “We have to do something. We can’t just sit back and watch while they-”

“Win?” Draco offers. He resists the urge to still Potter’s pacing, and remains seated. “I’m not suggesting doing nothing, but if you’re going to risk lives of people you care about at least make damn sure it’s worth it before you charge in half-cocked.”

“It could mean the end of the war, if we’re right.” Potter doesn’t elaborate, exchanging another charged look with Weasley.

“It’s a bloody treasure hunt. Malfoy’s right, we might as well search through Death Eater vaults. You Know Who isn’t going to be taking any chances.” Weasley stands, and he clutches Potter’s arm. They murmur between themselves, and Draco watches them together. 

“They do that a lot.” Longbottom nods at Potter and Weasley and gives Draco a grim smile. A steady hum of conversation crescendos and drowns out Potter and Weasley’s whispering. “In case you wondered.”

“I didn’t,” Draco lies. He wonders what secrets Potter and Weasley share, and not for the first time he questions Potter’s unflinching loyalty where Weasley is concerned. “You don’t mind the fact they’re keeping secrets from you? You’re happy to fight without knowing the full story?”

“Everyone has secrets.” Longbottom glances over at Potter and then turns back to Draco with a shrug. “Harry would tell us if he could, I know he would. If you trust someone, you don’t need to know anymore.”

“It’s a lot of trust to place in one person.” Weasley and Potter clap one another on the shoulder, and exchange grins. They’re just as they were before the war – smiling broadly and thick as thieves – only this time Weasley’s tie is green and Potter’s smile is marred by the shadows circling his eyes and the dark stubble on his cheeks.

“If you can’t trust your friends who can you trust?” 

“Yourself.” But Draco knows that it’s already too late. He wonders when he started trusting Potter more than he trusts himself. He’s starting to feel the energy that radiates from Potter through his veins. He’s starting to feel the adrenaline working through his body, the sense of hope welling in his stomach. 

Draco stands and leaves the group just to get some air, while Longbottom explains how to make a Mandrake Restorative Draught, on the off-chance somebody should find themselves Petrified. Draco resists the urge to roll his eyes and to point out how stupid this all is – how futile. There’s something about Potter’s tenacity of spirit that sucks them all in, in the end. Even Malfoys who were raised to know better.

Draco remains in his place, until the room empties and it’s just Potter tapping the walls with his wand and listening for danger. Eventually he seems satisfied they will be safe for a while longer, and he settles into the comfortable armchair opposite Draco and gives him a quick smile. “I suppose I should thank you for sticking up for me, Malfoy.”

Draco shrugs and keeps his expression smooth, determined not to react with obvious pleasure at Potter’s thanks. “I suppose it was the least I could do after you invited me to the meeting.” Draco can’t resist continuing. “I don’t think Weasley was terribly thrilled.”

Potter snorts. “Perhaps not.” He doesn’t elaborate, clearly not in the mood for talking about his best friend behind his back. 

Noting Potter doesn’t seem terribly interested in making chit-chat, Draco sits back in his chair and watches as Potter stares at the small shard of mirror in his hand, his face twisting into a humourless smile.


	4. The Lion and the Serpent

_“These feelings won't go away, they've been knockin' me sideways. I keep thinking in a moment that time will take them away, but these feelings won't go away…”_

(Citizen Cope – Sideways)

Draco hears the murmured voices from the desks ahead of him, but a soft smile comes to his face as he closes his eyes and just concentrates on the exquisite feeling of air filling his lungs and releasing through his barely parted lips. In and out, slowly, over and over again. He wonders if people ever really stop to think about the physical things their bodies do to sustain them. Not just the lungs, of course. There is also the brain that directs everything, keeps the body functioning properly. And the heart, too.

The thud of his heartbeat is dull and steady in his chest, as he breathes in slowly and exhales. His heart stopped once. He’d lost it. He’d lost his heart, but they managed to put it back and bring him to life again. What an extraordinary thing his body is to want to keep on living even past the point of expiration. Do most bodies want such a thing? he wonders further. Do most bodies push to be alive, with the blood that runs through arteries and veins and the air that moves through lungs? Do bodies crave being alive?

He opens his eyes and glances up at the front of the classroom where Professor Slughorn sits lecturing to the NEWT-level students about something inconsequential. Draco doesn’t need to listen to this poor excuse for a Professor and a man, his Head of House, this poor, sad joke because Draco is an inventor, a creator, a master of Potions. He can manipulate ingredients to make whatever he chooses. He is invincible and alive.

He picks up a hand and extends it, looks at the blue veins against the paleness of his skin. The bench he sits on creaks as his partner leans forward and grabs for a bottle of ink. Clumsy, clumsy fool, it slips from his fingers and lands with a tinkling of broken glass over the table.

“Bugger! Oh, sorry, sorry!”

So loud, so clumsy. Draco’s ears are so attuned, he can hear the stuttered inhalations, he can hear the pick-up of beats in Boot’s thundering, thundering heart. He can see the waves of panicked red radiating from Boot’s skin. But this is only Slughorn, so Boot should relax. No one can hurt him here.

“Shhhhh,” Draco shushes Boot. He lays his pale, blue-veined hand on Boot’s trembling one. “I’ve got it. It’s easy, see?” Draco drags their joined hands through the ink and draws a rune on a half-ruined piece of parchment with Boot’s index finger.

“Malfoy, what are you doing?” Boot’s whisper is a snake-like hiss, but Boot’s not a Slytherin, not like him. Not like Draco and Blaise and Ronald Weasley. Ravenclaws caw like birds.

Draco draws another rune, but Boot wrests his hand from Draco’s grip. “That wasn’t very helpful of you,” he admonishes, his voice a bit louder.

“Is everything all right there, boys?” calls Professor Slughorn.

“Ye-yes, sir,” Boot stammers. “I’ve just spilled my ink, but I’ll clean it up.”

“He’s clumsy, sir!” Draco adds, turning to Boot with a grin. “Clumsy little Ravenclaw who can’t keep his hands where they belong. Look at them shaking!”

But it’s Draco’s hands that are shaking really, dripping black ink in splotches onto the parchment. That one looks a bit like a face.

“Mr Malfoy, are you quite all right?”

Draco nods as he watches his hands move. He hears them again, the table ahead of him, Blaise and Weasley, heads bent together, like he always used to do, laughing and talking and whispering. He hears Blaise call him a name, a name he always called Weasley, what a funny thing to have fallen so far.

“Mr Boot, please escort Mr Malfoy to the hospital wing,” says the Professor.

A warning ticks in his head, and Draco looks up, composes himself, as Boot extends a hand to help him from his seat. “I’m perfectly capable of walking myself, you pillock!” Draco spits it like he used to do. It sounds right; it sounds better. His tone is supposed to be snappish because that’s the man he is or was and might be again sometime if he can possibly.

Draco rises from his seat, picks up all this things, smears his hand through the ink again and walks stiffly towards the classroom door. He slams it shut behind him for good measure. He’s better than this. He is a master of Potions-making. He can make anything he wants.

The door opens again and Draco pauses for a moment. He inhales, feels his lungs at work, and exhales. Potter’s followed him, of course. Potter always follows him because he’s always up to something. “Come along, Potter,” Draco invites.

“Draco, come on, we’re going to Madam Pomfrey.”

“We most certainly are not,” Draco replies, with a grin. “Follow me, Potty.”

*

Potter’s complied with his wish not to go to the hospital wing, but instead of returning to class, they sit together in the Gryffindor common room. It’s exactly as Draco always pictured, but he doesn’t feel as uncomfortable here as he once might have imagined. He doesn’t even feel strange under the weight of Potter’s scrutiny from across the room. He will soon enough, though, he supposes. Once it’s worn off, he’ll feel out of sorts again.

“Are you going to tell me what the hell happened in there?” Potter breaks the silence, and his words ring with accusation.

A prickling sensation of being caught out tingles in his stomach, but he breathes in carefully and exhales against it until he’s calm enough to speak. “I just wanted to get out of class, Potter. We weren’t really learning anything anyway,” he says, which is at least partially-true.

“Oh,” Potter says, and Draco doesn’t understand how one word can be so laced with suspicion, and yet so dismissive at the same time. Potter is such a conundrum.

To ease Potter’s mind, Draco drapes himself artfully over the couch, as if he hasn’t a care in the world. “I was just bored, and Boot was being annoying,” he adds. “You’d have done the same.”

Potter looks at him consideringly for a moment, before shrugging his shoulders. He has much more important things about which to worry, Draco supposes, and when Potter moves forward and drops into a chair by the fireplace, he doesn’t give it another thought. Draco takes out his Ancient Runes textbook and begins to idly flip through it in the now comfortable silence. His breathing isn’t so loud anymore, nor is his heartbeat, and he certainly can’t hear Potter’s. His lips come up in a moue of distaste when he realises what it might mean. Can he finish off the vial without Potter noticing?

"I'm worried about Ron," Potter says suddenly, drawing Draco from his contemplation, then shakes his head and continues, "no, not _worried_. I'm...fuck, I don't know."

Draco isn’t sure that Potter wants to have an actual conversation and certainly not about Weasley, but the comment hangs heavy in the air between them. Draco sits up straighter then and gives Potter his full attention. “What do you mean then?”

Potter glances over. “Forget it,” he says on an exhale.

“No, you can talk to me,” Draco insists.

“I think I’m just being a little paranoid,” Potter responds. “Hard not to be, though.” He mutters the last, almost as if he’s ashamed of himself.

“It’s strange to see Weasley...” Draco struggles with a diplomatic word choice until he gives up and says, “acting like I used to do.”

“He’s not like--” Cutting himself off, Potter makes a small noise in the back of his throat. “You were a git because that’s who you always were.”

“Thanks ever so,” Draco responds sarcastically, to hide the sting.

“No, no, you know what I mean,” Potter says dismissively. “But with Ron it’s...it’s just...you’re right, it’s strange. It’s strange to see him acting like this, even though I know it’s...at least I hope it’s just…”

Draco doesn’t push any further when Potter trails off again. Any advice he could hope to give would first require him to sort through his own complicated feelings about this new relationship, such as it is. He’s not Potter’s friend; he’s never been Potter’s friend, but he’s something now, something like an ally and something like a confidant. A team member -- an army member.

But what if it is friendship? What if he’s swapped places with Weasley? Perhaps that’s the new nature of things between himself and Potter. Potter needs a new best mate when Weasley’s off playing the perfect Slytherin prince, and Draco is the closest thing available. He and Weasley perhaps aren’t so unalike as he’d always imagined. The thought fills him with disgust, as much as it excites his curiosity. What is Potter like as a best friend? Is this what it might have been like had Potter shaken his hand when they were eleven-years-old?

Draco tries not to think about what might have been too often; it’s too hard on the heart and on the mind. But as he looks at Potter, watches Potter fretting quietly and trying so hard to pretend like he’s got it all together, he can’t help but think about how differently everything might have turned out, had Potter chosen him over Weasley all those years ago.

“Everything is just so--fuck!” Potter cuts off again with the growled curse, irritation coming off him in waves. He pulls a hand through his hair and tugs on the wayward strands. “Everything is so different now, and I sometimes think…”

But he doesn’t finish, and Draco tries not to fidget during the loaded silence. He understands the significance of this moment, the fact that Potter is speaking to him and him alone about his fears and his frustrations with the way that this war is going -- because it is a war still, no matter that the Dark Lord has already won. In Potter’s mind, the war rages on and won’t cease until he, Potter, has ended it.

What must it be like to be Potter, he wonders.

“What do you think?” Draco asks.

Potter shrugs. “I don’t know, honestly. It just feels like we’re in this...this web sometimes, with all these different threads, and it’s hard to keep track of where they start and where they end up and who’s pulling what and who’s holding the other.” He gives a bitter laugh. “And I miss Hermione so much it makes my chest hurt sometimes. Does that make any sense?”

“Sure,” Draco responds, “Except that missing Granger bit.” Potter flips him two fingers, and Draco just shakes his head against a smile, and continues, “This is a large operation with a hundred moving parts. I think it’s only natural to not know how all of them are doing at any given time.”

“I don’t like not knowing,” Potter replies darkly.

“Control freak.” Draco smiles at him.

Potter looks for a moment like he’s going to smile back, but then his face twists to a grimace of pain. “Augh!” he cries out and raises a hand to his scar, rubbing against it.

“You all right?” Draco asks, genuinely concerned.

“Ye--yeah, I’m fine,” Potter replies, massaging against the scar for a moment more before lowering his hand. “Stupid thing twinges pretty sharply every once and a while. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.” He offers a grim smile.

“You shouldn’t smile like that,” Draco says. “Your face will get permanently stuck in that old man’s pout.”

Potter cocks his head to the side, expression briefly unreadable before his lips curve up into a much more genuine smile and he laughs.

“What’s so bloody funny then?”

But Potter doesn’t answer; he just continues to laugh as he plops down on the sofa and kicks up his feet.

*

Draco’s head is beginning to pound, the come-down imminent. He supposes that he put in too much of the calming draught this time. As pleasant as he felt, his thoughts were too wild. He needs to be more alert if he wants to be safe. Draco fingers the near-empty vial in his pocket and makes a mental note to be careful with the portions on the next batch.

“Must be time for our next class by now, Potter,” Draco says, though he has no intention of attending Ancient Runes today.

“Not for me,” Potter replies, lifting up his head from the back of the sofa. “I’ll walk with you though, if you wanted.”

“No, that’s okay,” Draco replies quickly, as he gathers up his things and starts toward the portrait entrance.

“I’ll walk with you anyway.” Potter stands up and lifts his arms up over his head until the joints give a satisfying popping noise.

“Really, Potter, I’m perfectly fine on my own,” Draco insists. He can feel the tremors beginning in his hands and he clutches his bag tightly so it doesn’t show.

“It’s dangerous in the halls when you’re on your own,” Potter says quietly.

A chill runs down Draco’s spine at the insinuation. He’d almost put the most recent attack out of his mind entirely, but of course Potter would bring it back up again. After a momentary struggle with himself, Draco says, “I’ve nothing to fear from that, remember? I’m the one who’s been attacking people.”

“You have not.”

“But that’s what everyone thinks, don’t they?” Draco replies. “Stands to reason then that I’ll be perfectly safe. The attacker won’t risk attacking the one person that’s keeping them hidden.”

Potter regards him for a moment, eyes shrewd and penetrating. “Everyone doesn’t think that,” he then says after a long moment.

“Don’t be thick, Potter, of course they do. Everyone suspects me. I’m fucking evil, remember? Just because you’ve forgotten doesn’t mean that everyone else hasn’t.” Draco rucks up his left sleeve to brandish the Dark Mark in Potter’s face, before suddenly wincing at the visceral and painful reminder of his father who bore the Mark and died because of it.

“You’re not evil,” Potter murmurs, eyes drawn to the tattoo. His hand twitches up at his side, almost as if he wants to reach out and touch it, but he doesn’t make another move. His gaze slowly moves upward again until he’s looking Draco in the eyes. “Do you think you’re evil?”

Draco doesn’t have an answer for that, and instead, carefully rolls his sleeve back down as he tries to compose himself. After a long moment, he looks back up. "Parvati won't even look at me anymore since the last one," he quietly complains. Potter just continues to look at him, and Draco feels the discomfort of his anxiety crawling along his skin. He really needs another dose, to go finish up the calming-skewed batch, but he daren't risk it with Potter right there. "Not that I care or anything," he adds quickly.

But he does care because for the first time, he hasn't actually done anything wrong. He doesn't want the attention, the infamy or the gossip. He just wants to be left alone. Of course, Potter has other ideas. Potter's dragged him back into the war, and the need to prove himself struggles against the desire for safety. Draco scoffs then; perhaps that has always been his problem: conflicting desires with no focal point outside his own selfish needs. He has a focus now, and it's Potter, Merlin help him.

"I believe you," Potter says.

Draco swallows hard against a sudden dry mouth. "You do?" he asks.

Potter nods. "It's too obvious."

Draco can tell from the cadence that it's meant jokingly, but Potter isn't smiling. "I can see why everyone would think it was me though," he replies, as he walks over to the window and takes a seat in the alcove.

"If it _was_ you, you'd be crowing to the bloody rooftops about it. You'd be using it, and instead you're here with me. I think that speaks volumes more about you."

Potter’s tone is still light, still teasing, but Draco hears the truth of it. In his old life, Draco would have done just exactly that. He would have been attempting to reintegrate himself into the Dark Lord's favour. "I suppose I would," he answers, defeated. "So there's that, then."

"Hey," Potter says softly. Draco feels him hovering just behind him, but he doesn't turn around. "I'm trying to cheer you up a bit here. Least you could do is go along with it."

"Forgive me if I'm not exactly used to you being merry," Draco replies, as Potter takes a seat at his side and leans up against the wall.

"I'm extremely merry, thank you very much," Potter replies. Draco flicks a glance at him, and he is smiling, though it doesn't reach his eyes.

Draco shrugs then. "Not lately, you aren't, and you have never been with me."

"Fair enough, but I know it isn’t you, Draco," Potter says. “I know it isn’t you. I believe you.”

A tight feeling comes to Draco’s chest, stealing the air from his lungs. How can Potter be so certain? The strength of his conviction is almost overwhelming, and Draco has to look away. “Potter, I--”

“--Harry,” Potter interrupts. “It’s Harry.”

"H--Harry, then," Draco says, but doesn't continue. He's forgotten what he was going to say to Potter's...Harry's assertion that Draco isn't the attacker.

Harry leans forward, eyes are blazing with fierce determination. "Trust me. We can face absolutely anything if we just hang in there together."

"No matter how much has changed?" Draco's voice is barely above a whisper.

Harry nods, decisive and sure once more. "Absolutely."

Draco fights desperately against the sudden mad urge to reach out and touch Harry, pull him in close and wrap himself in Harry’s arms. He clasps his hands together tightly in front of himself and looks away. He doesn't trust himself against the sudden onslaught of horrible, horrible hope.

Harry closes the gap further, and Draco holds his breath. He exhales in surprise when Harry places his hands on Draco’s shoulders and forces his attention back. "Are you still with me?" Harry asks.

Draco hates himself for what he's sure must be so transparent. It's right there on his face, he's certain. "Ye--yes," he stammers, suddenly terrified that Harry can really see to the foolish, weak heart of him. "Yes, I am."

Harry smiles, and Draco is undone.


	5. The Dream

_“Never thought you'd make me perspire, never thought I'd do you the same. Never thought I'd fill with desire, never thought I'd feel so ashamed…”_

(Placebo – My Sweet Prince)

Draco blames the potion. The balance isn’t quite right. Too much Murtlap tentacle, perhaps. Not enough thyme. The once soothing scent of his mother’s garden has become the cloying, overpowering stench of pungent flowers. 

Draco clenches his trembling hand into a fist, wondering when they started shaking. He brings the small glass phial to his lips and the trembling eases. His heart thuds loudly in his chest and a dark shadow crosses his eyes. It becomes Potter shaped, only to be replaced by bright green eyes and sparks of colour which move like a kaleidoscope before his eyes. 

He squeezes his eyes closed and steadies his racing heartbeat by breathing slowly. Inhale, exhale. He opens his eyes and everything is light, bright and normal again.

Draco bottles the remaining potion and puts the small glass bottles into his robes, where they clink together reassuringly. It’s enough to get him through until the end of term at least. He allows himself a moment of self-congratulation. To combine the base ingredients of _Felix Felicis_ with a draught to temper the effects caused by prolonged use was inspired. He ignores the nagging voice that suggests perhaps the counter draught isn’t strong enough. He runs his hand over his eyes, but there are no more shadows or spots of light. His heartrate has slowed to a normal level, and he can breathe again.

He unfurls his fingers and stretches his hand in front of him, turning it this way and that. There’s no sign of a tremor. His hand remains steady. 

With a self-satisfied smile he exits the Room of Hidden Things and makes his way to the Slytherin Common room.

He has a Weasley to knock off his perch.

*

Even with the added confidence boost that his self-medication provides, it’s not as easy as Draco imagines to expose Weasley’s Gryffindor tendencies and to reclaim his role as the undisputed prince of Slytherin.

“He’s alright.” Goyle doesn’t seem overly concerned about getting involved in a coup of any sort. Instead, he sits next to Draco in near silence and watches Weasley and Zabini laugh about something as if they’ve always been the best of friends. “Besides, he’s Quidditch Captain now.”

“Sorry?” Draco’s blood chills and he looks at Goyle who nods. 

“Yep. Carrow told him the other day. If you want to be Seeker again, you’ll have to go through Weasley.”

A wave of nausea overwhelms Draco, and his skin heats with furious anger. Weasley looks so smug, perched on the sofa with Slytherins who should know better fawning all over him. 

“Brother dearest is doing a _fine_ job adjusting to his change of circumstances.” When Ginny takes a seat by Draco and Goyle, Draco can’t help but hiss at Ginny because this is partly her fault too.  
“Your mother and father must be so proud.”

 

Ginny makes the usual noises in defence of Weasley, but Draco notices the way her eyes narrow as she watches him, a flicker of uncertainty clouding her features. 

“Ron knows what he’s doing,” Ginny murmurs.

Parkinson sits next to Ron and places a light kiss on his cheek, giggling at something he says and flirting the way she used to flirt with Draco.

“Are you sure?” Draco raises an eyebrow at Ginny. “Does Granger know he has Parkinson hanging off his arm these days?”

Ginny turns back to her books with a frown on her face, and doesn’t respond.

*

Draco wakes with a start, his skin hot and slick with perspiration. The images from his nightmares assault his senses and he stumbles to the sink, starting the tap running as he retches. He clutches the marble and looks up to face himself in the mirror. His eyes are wild and red-rimmed, with dark shadows sliding over his face.

Draco pockets his wand and reaches for his potion with shaky hands, taking a deep drink. It’s too much but it’s the only thing that settles him these days. He tries to push aside the nagging reminder that the nightmares – the _real_ nightmares – began when he started taking his experimental Felix Felicis.  
He shivers at the image burned on his brain, of Potter looking up from the body of a unicorn and smiling at Draco with silvery bloodied lips shining in the moonlight. He shakes himself and leaves his rooms as quietly as he can. He moves on autopilot to the remnants of the Room of Requirement, letting the door close behind him and leaning against it with a shaky breath.

“Can’t sleep?”

“Potter.” Draco’s eyes snap open and he focuses on the form in the shadows. “Is that you?”

“Obviously.” Harry sounds pissed off. “I can’t sleep either.”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Draco repeats, rolling his eyes. He takes a seat in the armchair opposite Harry, relieved to see he doesn’t appear to have been drinking unicorn blood. “You weren’t in the Forbidden Forest tonight, were you?”

“Hardly.” Harry’s eyes narrow and he contemplates Draco. “Why on earth would I go there? If you think it was bad before, it’s ten times worse now.”

“It was just a dream.” Draco dismisses it with a wave of his hand. “You look like you haven’t slept for a week.”

“So do you,” Harry observes. Now he just sounds tired. He rubs his head and his lips press together firmly. Draco isn’t used to this quiet, stoic Harry Potter. He’s used to finding Potter brash and offensive, ordering people around and being heroic. He notices Harry’s shirt is crumpled and untucked, his tie askew. The small mirror sits on the arm of the chair next to him, and Draco wonders who he was communicating with before Draco interrupted. He slides his own mirror from his pocket and looks in the glass, but there’s nobody there – just a flicker of green and then black before the mirror goes still again.

“Do you come here every night?” Draco is curious, as he takes in the cluttered room. Gone are the Gryffindor hues and the multiple chairs and cushions. This room is darker, with a small fire flickering to one corner of the room and two large leather armchairs. It looks more like Snape’s quarters without the books. He supposes Potter was never one for books. He wonders if Potter was expecting someone, as the two armchairs are perfectly aligned for conversation. There are two glasses on the table, glinting the firelight and two empty china plates with silver spoons catching the orange flames and sending shadows off to dance across Harry’s face.

“Most nights.” Harry’s expression brightens and he looks momentarily happy. “Is it Thursday?”

“It is.” Draco looks around with trepidation, wondering what happens on Thursdays that has Harry looking so gleeful.

“Then there’s food coming.” Harry rubs his hands together and lets out a hoot of happiness. “Brilliant.”

“There is?” Draco wonders how Harry manages to break every rule of magic and create food out of thin air. His questions are soon answered when an angry looking house-elf appears with a pop, huffing under the weight of an enormous platter. 

“The blood traitor sends food, _Master_.” The house-elf drops down the platter and glares at Harry before looking curiously at Draco. “A _Malfoy_. Master is keeping better company.”

“I’m doing no such thing.” Harry snorts and slides the covering off the food. “Thanks, Kreacher. Give my love to Molly.”

The creature shudders and disappears with another pop. 

“I don’t think he likes you much.” Draco enjoys the disdainful elf’s interactions far more than he probably should, the idea that Harry isn’t universally adored appealing to him. “He does this a lot?”

“Once a week. It’s safer at night.” Harry takes a mouthful of a sandwich piled high with ham, cheese, tomato and lettuce and lets out a contented groan of approval. He pushes the plate towards Draco. “Help yourself. Molly always makes loads. There’s quiche and sandwiches, cake, pastries, chocolate…all sorts. I leave it here in the trunk by the door.” Harry gestures to a large, battered trunk pushed against the wall. “It’s for the others too – the ones who aren’t in Slytherin, I mean.”

Draco nods, because that too has changed. In the Great Hall the Slytherin table piles high with food and piping hot beverages, while the other house tables barely fill at all – meagre rations of lukewarm porridge, stale bread and water designed to keep the non-Slytherins in a permanent state of hunger. “It’s not exactly pumpkin juice and treacle tart for supper anymore.” Draco takes a sandwich, feeling rather guilty because his supper was particularly fine even though he pushed most of it to the side of his plate, unable to eat properly with his stomach churning from the effects of the potion.

“Not for us,” Harry agrees. He takes another sandwich triangle and demolishes it in three bites. “Besides, I’m not sure I trust the food they give us. The bread always tastes off.”

“Moldy?” Draco’s brow furrows and Harry shakes his head.

“Not off, off. Just…not quite right. I wouldn’t put it past them to put stuff in the food. Makes it easier for them, doesn’t it? If no one’s fighting back.”

The thought makes Draco’s blood chill and he wonders at the slightly powdery aftertaste to the hot chocolate he drinks in the morning, wondering if it’s just the non-Slytherins that are being drugged. He can’t afford to have things mixing in his bloodstream that he doesn’t know about – no wonder he’s been having nightmares and dreams of Potter slaughtering unicorns.

“The Slytherin food too – the drinks, in particular.”

Harry winces. “Some of them.”

Draco thinks of Goyle sitting next to him when Draco was deep in thought and wonders at it, his heartrate quickening. “Some?”

“Some of the Prefects are told to keep an eye on things.” Harry doesn’t meet Draco’s eyes. “Or so Ron said. I didn’t know you were someone that needed to be monitored, otherwise I would have told you earlier.”

“I didn’t know I was either.” Draco bristles at the thought that his former friends are keeping an eye on him as if he’s some kind of renegade. “But now I do.”

Harry at least keeps respectfully quiet, tucking into another sandwich without saying a word. 

“How’s Ron?” Eventually, Harry breaks the silence, sounding hopeful as if he longs to hear some news about Ron fighting against his newfound status.

“Just peachy.” Draco pushes his sandwich to one side, his appetite lost. “Quidditch Captain, apparently.”

“Oh.” Harry chews a piece of cake thoughtfully, swiping some chocolate from his lip in a gesture that makes Draco’s heart respond with a skip and a jump. “And Ginny?”

“Also fine.” Draco wonders again about Harry’s connection with Ginny, remembering their whispered words to one another and the flush in her cheeks when Harry leaned in to speak with her. “Not as fine as Weasley, but fine. She keeps to herself.”

“Like you,” Harry observes. He gives Draco a flicker of a smile. “Probably best to keep your head down. I’m not sure any of us know who to trust these days.”

“I plan to.” Draco eyes Harry curiously. “I thought you and Ginny were loves young dream, once.”

“Maybe.” Harry shrugs, looking away from Draco and into the distance. “We’re not much of anything, these days. It’s not like there’s a lot of time to think about romance.”

Draco’s cheeks heat and he pushes to one side the gnawing sensation which makes his stomach twist into painful knots and which makes his skin heat and his body tense whenever he’s close to Potter. 

“It could help?” He doesn’t know why he’s saying it, pushing Harry into someone else’s arms just because he’s trying to defend the way his own traitorous brain seems inclined to work.

To Draco’s relief, Harry laughs and focuses on him again. His face is relaxed and easy and he gives Draco a slow smile. “What’s your type then, Malfoy?”

Draco’s heart catches in his throat and he pulls a face, trying to keep his voice level. “Not Parkinson anymore, that’s for sure.”

“No.” Harry looks as if, maybe, he understands and his eyes bore into Draco until he starts to feel uncomfortably warm. “I didn’t think so.”

*

When he returns to bed, Draco watches the ceiling for a long time. The shadows in the room shift and move over the light paintwork, forming shapes that merge together before Draco’s eyes. There are two bright white spots just to the left of his vision and he blinks repeatedly to try to get them to disappear.  
His hands have started shaking again. Not much, but just enough so he can’t ignore the light tremors which come and go.

He murmurs a charm to keep the curtains around his bed firmly closed, and thinks about Potter.

His body heats as he thinks about the way Harry stared at him, just before he made his excuses and fled before he could say something stupid. His hand slides down his stomach, and he closes his eyes to block out the white spots of light as his breathing quickens.

With a muffled groan, Draco pushes his hand beneath the waistband of his pants and wraps his hand around his cock. It must be the potions, he tells himself. He can’t really be interested in _Harry_ like this.

But he is interested, and when his hand speeds up Draco can’t deny it any more. Harry’s eyes flickering in the light from the small fire burn into his brain as he shifts and twists in his sheets, trying to keep the sounds of his ragged huffs of breath from spilling out into the Slytherin dormitory. He bites his bottom lip as he pictures kissing Harry – fucking Harry – his hand sliding over his aching cock which juts up eagerly into his hand in response to Draco’s fantasies.

They’re in the lake, Draco swimming out to the centre. Harry is there, his body slick with water and his skin cool to the touch. Their naked bodies twine together as Draco’s hand is replaced with Harry’s, sure and firm. 

Draco opens his eyes as he reaches a shuddering climax, and all he can see is Harry’s reflection on the still lake stretching all around him as far as the eye can see.

*

If being around Potter was uncomfortable before, now it’s even worse.

Draco tries to avoid Harry for a couple of days so he doesn’t have to try to stop the heat rising in his cheeks when Potter throws him an easy smile from across the room, or asks to borrow a spare pot of ink in Potions.

Draco’s not ready for Harry to fall into step beside him as he makes his way to the lake one evening, making small talk about Arithmancy homework.

“What do you want?” Draco stops in his tracks and faces Harry with a glare, folding his arms to put some distance between them. “Why are you _always_ following me?”

Harry looks momentarily put out. “Sorry, I didn’t think I was. You found me the other night, remember?”

“I remember,” Draco replies, tightly. “But it doesn’t make us friends. If things are bad for me now in Slytherin they’re going to get even worse if it looks as if we’re thick as thieves.”

Harry looks around the wide expanse of empty space and raises his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t worry about that – there’s nobody here. No one cares what we’re doing.”

With a grunt of aggravation, Draco continues walking to the lake with Harry by his side. He’s reminded of a few nights before and he ducks his head before Harry can catch the warmth rising in his cheeks.

 

“Do you want to know a secret I’ve never told anybody before?”

“Not particularly.” They reach the lake and Draco meets Harry’s eyes in the water.

“I’m not sure I’m only interested in girls.”

Harry picks up a stone and skims it across the lake, their reflections sliding in fragmented pieces on the ripples out into the centre of the lake.

“I’d keep that to yourself.” Draco’s throat is dry, and his voice comes out rough-edged. “The Dark Lord has never been fond of queers.”

“Is that right?” Harry sounds as if he couldn’t care less what the Dark Lord thinks and sits at the edge of the lake, watching as Draco strips down to his swimming trunks and dives into the icy water.

*

When Draco surfaces, Harry is nowhere to be seen. He gathers together his clothes and casts a charm to dry himself as the late afternoon sun dips behind a cloud.

Before making his way back to the castle, Draco stretches out on the ground. The grass is warm and flat from where Harry had been sitting only moments before.

Draco watches the clouds moving through the sky as Harry’s words churn around in his mind, repeating over and over until Harry’s voice drowns out the sound of everything else.

_I’m not sure I’m only interested in girls_

Draco isn’t sure why – of all people – Harry would tell him, and too much speculating makes his heart hammer in his chest and his palms turn hot and clammy. He can’t help but wonder when his life became such a bloody disaster. With a groan, Draco closes his eyes and lets the soft light from the setting sun warm his cheeks until the first chill of the night air alerts him to the time.

He gathers his things and makes his way slowly back to the castle, his mind full of Harry Potter.


	6. The Lightning-Struck Tower

_“I’ve been fucking around while you’ve been saving the world. I’ve been out of my mind, I’ve been dreaming things and scheming things…I’ve been smoking the poison…on the long way down”_

(Robert De Long – Long Way Down)

Draco wonders if he should feel titillated by what he’s seeing; it would be a normal response for a man of his age when confronted with a half-dressed woman and a half-dressed man pressed up against a wall, exchanging heated kisses and pawing at one another’s bodies, but then perhaps if it were any other two lovers, his instinct would have been to reach into his trousers and bring himself off rather than the roiling disgust he feels in his stomach, which he tries to pretend is because of what he’s seeing and not because he’s outraged on Harry’s behalf.

Although, he considers, Harry had implied an interest in men, which logically wouldn’t have been inspired by daydreaming about marriage to Ginny Weasley, boyishly-figured though she might have been. Perhaps Harry wouldn’t mind at all that his ex-girlfriend and his good friend Longbottom had found romance in each other’s arms. Perhaps Harry would welcome the news and move on to someone else…or perhaps he just wouldn’t care, as he has far more important things on his mind than who’s snogging whom.

Draco frowns; it’s much more likely that Harry would be upset than for him to not care about what’s going on right underneath his nose. It’s much more likely that Harry would appreciate knowing that instead of worrying about the encroaching danger, Ginny and Longbottom are following their stupid hormones and practically having sex in corridors where literally anyone could see them. Righteous anger fills him, and he decides that the first thing he’s going to do is interrupt them, and the second thing he’s going to do is march straight over to Gryffindor Tower and tell Harry what he’s seen.

But that’s completely ridiculous -- why show his entire hand? Since when, Draco thinks, has he lost his strategic mind? In what universe is it better not to use the information he has at hand now to gain something for himself later?

Sometimes Draco thinks that everything is upside down, and then he remembers that, in fact, it is.

He watches as Longbottom’s hand finds its way up Ginny’s thigh and under her skirt; watches as her eyes flutter shut as he begins to move it rhythmically; watches as he sucks kisses into her freckled neck. Draco could interrupt at any moment, but instead, he turns around and walks back the way he came. His head is killing, and he really could use another dose.

“And that, right there, is what the experts call ‘checkmate’,” says Weasley, as Draco enters the common room.

Blaise gives Weasley a look of disbelief before he concedes and his queen lays down in surrender. “Don’t know why I even bother playing you,” he replies, but his tone is bright, almost simpering. “You’re brilliant, Ron.”

Draco scoffs and rolls his eyes before he can stop himself. It’s such a pathetic display on both sides.

“Something to say, Malfoy?” Weasley asks, cocking his head to the side. His eyes are shrewd, and Draco meets them easily. “Well, go on then. Let’s hear it.”

Draco opens his mouth, ready with a nasty reply, when he suddenly notices the roomful of eyes on him and remembers that he doesn’t have very many friends left, and he cannot afford to draw more attention to himself than he already has. “I,” he pauses, clears his throat, and continues, “I just thought you might want to play someone who might actually be a challenge.” He turns to look at Blaise instead, a soft false smile coming to his lips. “Everyone in this room knows you’re rubbish at chess.”

A thick, tense silence comes over the room, and Draco holds his ground, even though his heart is pounding and his head is screaming that he might have gone too far. His tone had been light, but was it enough? He’s not one of them anymore, he knows that, and it’s more than possible he’s completely forgotten how to be one of them.

Goyle suddenly breaks the tension with a low laugh. “You are pretty fucking terrible at chess,” he says, slapping Blaise on the back.

Others join in on the good-natured ribbing of Blaise, but Draco only has eyes for Weasley, who looks annoyed and considering by turns. For the first time in months, Draco smiles with complete sincerity.

*

Someone pads past the beds and the bedroom door softly creaks open. Had Draco been asleep, he knows it wouldn’t have disturbed him, but his mind has been racing since the moment he laid his head down on the pillow. He waits for a moment until the door closes with a soft click behind whoever got out of bed and then slips from between his covers to follow after.

Of course it’s Weasley, he thinks, as he sees the flash of ginger hair disappear around the corner on the way to the common room. Did Potter summon Weasley for a late night meeting of their little army, or is Weasley playing a game all on his own? Either way, Draco is determined to follow and see. Potter would want him to do.

Draco peers around the corner and sees Weasley standing before the fireplace. The fire has long since gone out, but Weasley builds it back up with a few flicks of his wand. Something in his left hand catches the firelight, and he lifts it up to eye-level, when a clatter sounds at the portrait entrance. He slips whatever was in his hand into the sleeve of his jumper and quickly takes a seat on the couch. Draco holds his breath.

“Ron, what are you doing still awake?” Pansy’s using her breathy voice, and Draco rolls his eyes.

Weasley shrugs and smiles at her. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d start working on that History of Magic essay.”

That he doesn’t have any books or parchment doesn’t seem to register with Pansy because she flounces over and takes a seat at his side. “How utterly boring,” she purrs, leaning into him.

“So boring,” Weasley agrees. “What are you still doing awake?”

“Patrolling a bit. There’ve been rumours, you know…” She trails off, obviously meaning to be suggestive. Draco can practically feel her self-importance from the hall. “But Blaise left me all alone to go deal with some stupid Mudbloods…you wouldn’t want to go with me to finish my rounds, would you?”

“Sure, Pans,” Weasley replies, and he doesn’t even flinch when she leans back in and kisses his cheek. “Anything for you,” he adds.

Draco’s lip curls up into a sneer and he pushes himself away from his hiding spot, not wanting to see or hear anymore. Weasley makes him bloody sick to the back teeth. Whatever game he’s playing, Draco wonders if he’s long since forgotten the rules.

*

It’s hard to keep his eyes off Ginny and Longbottom, knowing what he knows about them, and when Ginny rises quickly from her seat to help Boot with Luna, Draco notices that Longbottom’s eyes follow her arse across the room instead of showing any concern whatsoever for their obviously injured friend. He had thought Gryffindors were supposed to be good. But then Longbottom is a Slytherin now, and so he belongs down in the muck with the rest of the Slytherin filth. Aren’t they all filth? Aren’t they all evil? Isn’t that what everyone thinks? What about their hearts? They have hearts too. Beautiful hearts that are filled with love and essence of dittany because they’ve been torn out.

“What are you sneering about?” Potter says.

Draco hurriedly looks up and schools his expression into a more appropriately bland one. “Nothing,” he answers.

Potter sits down next to him on the couch, a warm weight pressed against his side, and Draco tries not to squirm. “It’s never ‘nothing’ with you,” Potter replies, but when he turns his head, he’s smiling.

Something fluttering takes up residence behind his ribs, and Draco struggles not to let it show on his face. “It’s really nothing.”

Potter laughs softly. “Oh, so your face is just naturally sneering?”

“Sometimes, yes,” Draco responds. His heart thuds behind his ribs. It’s so stupid and useless. It might have been better if it had just stayed out so many weeks ago.

“I like it better when you smile,” Potter says, and he uses Draco’s knee to lever himself back up again.

His fingers leave burns where they touch Draco’s body, scorching, searing heat that melts Draco to his seat. He reaches for his canteen and takes a long drink of cool, refreshing water. Idly, he wonders if perhaps he’s taken too much today. Everything feels more vibrant-- unless that means he’s finally perfected the dosage. They say that with Felix everything just feels better, brighter, _right_. Perhaps he really has finally got it down.

“Yeah,” Potter adds, “just like that.”

Draco raises a hand to hide his grin. He shouldn’t be grinning because someone is hurting. Lovegood is hurting profoundly from her last round of _Cruciatus_ , and he shouldn’t be smiling. He isn’t smiling about that anyway.

“Your eyes are so bright, Draco,” she says, as Boot and Ginny sit her down next to Draco on the sofa. “Like you can see. You can see everything, can’t you? You know what you see.”

“I see you,” he responds. She slumps back against the sofa and closes her eyes, her chest rising and falling softly. She needs her rest, he knows. Such a toll it’s all taken, and if anyone deserves it, it certainly isn’t her. She’s been through too much already. It’s unfair.

Nothing in this world is fair anymore. He sifts his fingers through Lovegood’s hair and thinks of his mother. He wonders if she’s even still alive.

“Has anyone seen Ron?” Potter asks, drawing everyone’s attention swiftly. He doesn’t seem all that worried, though.

Longbottom pipes up. “He was in the common room talking to Blaise and Pansy. I couldn’t...well, I couldn’t get his attention…” He trails off, uncertain, and glances at Ginny.

“But he knew…?

Longbottom nods, and Ginny looks at the door, as if Weasley will be right there to confirm that he’s still on their side. “I’m sure he’ll be along,” Longbottom replies.

“Right, yeah,” Potter says, following Ginny’s gaze at the door. He turns back then, an odd look in his eye. “Well, I suppose we can get started anyway and then just catch him up later.”

Lovegood stirs at his side and grasps his hand. Draco turns his head to her, and she says, “Draco, you see.”

He’s really not sure that he does, but he nods anyway.

*

The meeting is clearly not going well, and Draco is quite certain that he’s still not totally welcome, no matter that Potter’s vouched for him and even Hermione Granger’s advocated on his behalf. He can tell by the way they all look distrustfully at him; except of course for Lovegood. Luna. Perhaps he should call her Luna.

She’s regained some of her strength, but she still must be hurting because she’s leaning against him, her slight frame an oddly welcome weight against his side. He misses being touched, being comforted. As she reaches up a hand behind his back and sifts it gently through his hair, he can’t help the soft sigh that escapes him. He misses his mother so much that sometimes he can’t breathe.

“Of course it’s bloody getting worse, thank you for stating the fucking obvious,” spits Michael Corner. The nasty-looking cut over his lip splits and starts to bleed again. “Fuck,” he mutters and raises a hand to cover it.

“Let me,” says Ginny, as she raises her wand to cast a healing charm. Longbottom’s eyes narrow ever so slightly as she runs her finger over Corner’s bottom lip to check her work, and Draco glances quickly at Potter to gauge his reaction, but he’s not looking.

“Can we please focus? We’re not going to get anywhere if we just sit here sniping at each other,” he says, as he rubs at his scar. His frustration is loud in his tone even though he’s obviously trying to keep calm.

“It’s because Weasley isn’t here,” Draco then murmurs to Luna.

“What was that?” says Longbottom, looking at Draco.

Draco turns to him, and his mouth pulls down in a sour frown. “I wasn’t talking to you,” he replies.

“You shouldn’t be talking at all,” he says.

Draco rolls his eyes; Longbottom is obviously just bristling with jealousy because his secret girlfriend had her hands all over her ex-boyfriend. “Don’t get your knickers in a bunch, Longbottom. Corner’s just fine...Ginny saw to it nicely, didn’t she?” It’s been so long since he last took the piss out of Longbottom that the words almost feel foreign in his mouth, but, well, it does feel good too. It feels really good to get off a good sneer and knock Longbottom down a peg or two. He wouldn’t have done it if it didn’t feel good -- the potion wouldn’t have let him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Corner asks.

“It’s nothing,” Ginny answers for him. “Just drop it.” She gives Longbottom a look that makes him tense up further.

“It’s obviously not nothing,” says Corner, glaring at Draco. “Look at him, sitting there all bloody smug. What the hell are you on about, Malfoy?”

Draco almost relishes the way Corner spits his surname. God, it feels like old times. “Nothing for you to worry about, Corner,” he drawls. His lips curve up into a smirk, as he turns his attention back to Longbottom and Ginny in turn. Ginny’s eyes turn shrewd, but she’s a Gryffindor, not a natural Slytherin, and she cannot hide the concerned glance she gives to Longbottom, and Draco cannot help but laugh. 

Corner rises from his seat and starts across the room. “Then why don’t you shut your bloody mouth and let Harry get on with it?”

“Michael…” Ginny’s tone is warning, but Corner doesn’t take notice.

“That’s enough,” Potter says.

Draco’s heart is pounding as Corner rounds on him, but he cannot stop smirking. It’s all so ridiculous; so petty and ridiculous that all of Ginny’s lovers are here in this room, pretending that everything’s all fine and dandy amongst them. Well, Thomas isn’t here, but of course, he’s a muggle-born and therefore not allowed, but Draco imagines that if he was here too, he’d be just as flustered as the rest of them. So ridiculous and so childish when there’s so much more at stake -- so many other hidden things that should come to light. Perhaps here...in the Room of Hidden Things.

“Ease off, Corner,” Draco says, grinning widely. “No one’s after you this time. You’re not the one holding something back.”

“Holding something--” Corner cuts off, confused, then reaches down and grabs Draco by his shirt, hauling him to his feet. “You’d better start explaining yourself right bloody now, you fucking Death Eater shit, or--”

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” Potter thunders, drawing Corner’s attention, as well as most of the rest of the army assembled.

But Draco only looks over Corner’s shoulder to see Ginny and Longbottom exchanging worried glances, and an unbecoming snort of laughter escapes him before he can help it. “This is so pathetic,” he says, incredulous. “I should just...I _should_!” He fixes Longbottom with a pointed look, and his lips curve up into a knowing smile. “What should I do, Longbottom? Tell me. Should I share?”

Longbottom pales. He swallows hard before he responds, “Malfoy, I don’t--”

“--this is fucking ridiculous!” Corner shouts. “Why the hell is he even here, Harry?”

“We need him,” Potter responds quietly.

“Do we? What the bloody hell for? He’s fucking useless, and he’s probably still a goddamned Death Eater!” Corner grabs Draco by the shirt again, his face bright red with anger. “I for one have had just about enough of him.”

Draco opens his mouth to respond, but he catches sight of Potter’s face. He looks...oh, so disappointed. “I…” Draco begins, and the words easily dry up in his throat. “But I…”

“Let go of him, Michael,” Potter says, still so quietly.

“Why are you defending him?” Corner shouts. He lets go and rounds on Potter instead. “Give me one bloody good reason to keep this piece of shit around. One! Just one fucking reason, Harry, please?”

When Potter doesn’t immediately answer, Draco runs to the door, flings it wide open, and flees without a backward look.

*

He’s not sure why his body brought him here; he’s avoided it entirely for the last two years, afraid to face whatever demons or ghosts might have taken up residence there, but he’s here now. His heart is pounding, his blood surging through his veins, and his lungs feel tight, like something’s wrapped their hands around them and started squeezing. But he’s here, hands pressed against the stone and staring down over the expansive grounds.

He fell here-- died here-- was _killed_ here. Here on the Tower, when the storm was raging, when Draco very nearly made a choice before that choice was taken from him. When his whole life changed in a single moment: changed for the worse, he knows now. Everything is worse now. So much worse.

“Draco?”

Potter’s voice slices through him, sets his teeth on edge. Why is it always Potter? Why is Potter always the one to see him when he’s so low?

But God, how he wants. He wants Potter too, wants Potter’s stupid arms wrapped tightly around him, wants Potter’s stupid lips suffused to his own, wants to kiss and touch and melt into, because if there’s anyone who might make it good, it’s Potter. Potter’s so good, even when he’s lost.

“Draco.” Not a question this time. Draco can hear Potter dithering near the stairs, trying to make up his mind if he wants to save or to avoid. Potter will always choose save, though, won’t he? Of course he will. He’s the Saviour of the Wizarding World, or he was supposed to have been, if only things had gone another way. If only he hadn’t failed.

Everything is upside down, and everything hurts. Draco’s chest hurts, his stupid false heart hurts from where it had been ripped from his chest. Why couldn’t he have stayed dead? Everything would be so much better if he’d just stayed dead because then he wouldn’t have to be alive. He wouldn’t have to be here at this fucking school, with its fucking psychopathic professors and its children running around pretending to be safe or pretending that there’s literally anything they can do to make it better.

“Draco, I need you to step back from there.” Potter’s voice is low and almost threatening, even though Draco’s certain he meant it to be merely commanding.

“Why should I?” Draco asks. He cocks his head to glance over his shoulder. The air crackles between them like lightning. Sparks fly, Draco can see them, white and grey and silvery sparks flickering at the edge of his vision. He closes his eyes against the onslaught, and immediately, his eyelids feel like lead. He’s so tired, he just wants to fall under.

Potter’s just behind him now, his hands hovering at Draco’s feet. Draco’s not sure when he stepped up on the ledge, and he knows what this must look like, but he doesn’t care. Not really. How easy it would be to just step forward and fall into the void. It’s what he deserves. It’s no more than he deserves. He lifts one foot experimentally and feels Potter’s hand twitch toward him, so he puts it back down again.

Because he’s a coward. He’s too cowardly to jump on his own, even if maybe that’s what he wants. His head hurts, and his hands are shaking, and his heart is thundering in his stupid, scarred up chest, and he just wants to fucking jump, but he needs a push. He needs someone to make his choices for him. He doesn’t have the Professor anymore, so it might as well be Potter. Potter’s decided that Draco’s worth his attention, and therefore, Potter it shall be.

“Potter,” he begins, and his voice cracks. He frowns. “Harry,” he tries again.

“Draco, I’m going to come up there with you. Is that okay?” Harry doesn’t wait for a response, and he climbs up until he’s standing next to Draco on the ledge. His hands rest at his side, his fingers dangling tantalizingly against Draco’s own.

Draco sucks in a breath and reaches for Harry’s hand. “I don’t want to do this anymore,” he says, as Harry twines their fingers together.

“Don’t want to do what?” he asks.

“I don’t want to fight. I’m no good at fighting. I don’t belong with you. I belong with them. I’m not...I’m not good, Harry,” Draco replies. Something in his chest loosens, the tight feeling around his lungs loosens, and he exhales slowly, relishing the feel of the air. Bodies are such incredible things, he thinks.

Harry doesn’t answer for a moment. “Can we step down now?” he asks.

“No,” Draco says quickly.

“All right, that’s fine,” Harry replies, but he tightens his grip on Draco’s hand, and Draco’s traitorous heart flutters in his chest.

It’s too much for one chest to bear, all this fluttering and squeezing and beating and loosening. Everything still hurts. Everything always hurts so very fucking much. “Harry, I-- why are you bothering with me?”

Harry turns his head, and he smiles. “Isn’t that obvious?” he asks, his tone low again. Sultry. Why is Harry being sultry? He’s supposed to be good. He’s supposed to be the good one, the righteous one. The one who fixes everything and doesn’t give up even when things are fucking terrible. Sultriness is for people like...people like Draco.

“Harry--” but Harry cuts him off with a finger to his lips. “Harry,” Draco whispers, against Harry’s fingertip.

“Draco, can we please step down now?” Harry asks, soft and inviting.

Draco nods, and together they step off the ledge. Draco’s heart is racing, and he no excuse this time. There is no blinding, visceral fear. No concern. No question. There is just the welcome certainty that the only person that matters in this entire fucking castle, this entire fucking world, this entire fucking war is the person standing in front of him, with his bright green Saviour’s eyes and his lightning bolt scar and ridiculous glasses and ridiculous hair, and his huge, perfect heart. “Harry,” he whispers again. He’s never really called Harry _Harry_ before, and it’s nice. It’s nice that Harry’s letting him. It’s nice to be with Harry like this.

“Draco,” Harry echoes, as he steps closer into Draco’s space. “Do you trust me?”

And Draco supposes he should be surprised to say that he does, but since everything is upside down and normally everything hurts, it makes sense that the one thing that doesn’t hurt is the one thing that he trusts the most. He’s never liked pain. He nods his head.

Harry smiles, a dazzling thing. “Then don’t be afraid. As long as you’re with me, you’re going to be okay. You’re going to be just fine. I promise you.”

“As long as I stay with you,” Draco replies.

Harry nods, and his smile, God his smile, grows wider still somehow. Dazzling, brilliant, so bright and perfect, so disarming. “You can count on me.” His hands slide around the small of Draco’s back and pull him into an embrace. When did he get so close?

Draco exhales a soft, shuddery breath. His hands aren’t shaking anymore as he places them on Harry’s hips. One of Harry’s hands snakes up his back and into the soft hairs at the back of Draco’s neck. “Okay,” Draco whispers.

Harry closes the smallest of gaps between them and presses his lips against Draco’s own. Draco sags forward in Harry’s arms, and Harry buoys him up, wrapping him tightly, as his lips part and his tongue dips forward to slide against Draco’s.

Draco’s heart feels fit to burst, and he closes his eyes tight against the onslaught of sensation. Everything stops hurting, just for right now, just for this perfect moment.


	7. Hermione's Helping Hand

_“Help me, I've fallen on the inside I tried to change the game...but now I'm losing. Men in cloaks always seem to run the show, save me from the, ghosts and shadows before they eat my soul...show me mercy, can someone rescue me?_

(Muse – Mercy)

When Potter barely looks up as Draco enters the Great Hall the next morning, Draco doesn’t trust his own memories. The night has already started to slip away from him – the cool air dancing over his cheeks, his precarious perch which might have been the edge of the earth, Harry’s voice low and sultry and Draco’s lips responding with ready eagerness to Harry’s confident kisses. He remembers his heart beating and the way Potter’s sighs filled his lungs.

The memories are so strange to him now, in the bright light of the morning. It’s like a fleeting dream, hazy with the passing of time. Besides, Draco doesn’t trust his mind these days – not when it comes to Harry and sumptuous kisses which leave him aching and breathless. Not when Potter doesn’t give him a smile that says _I remember too_ and maybe _let’s do that again_.

Potter adjusts his tie and looks up for one charged, brilliant moment. Their eyes connect and Harry frowns as if there’s something he doesn’t quite understand – something he can’t quite place. Because it’s Harry and Draco’s lost, his only response is to smile. 

Eventually, Harry smiles back. Tentative, questioning and uncertain.

Draco hopes they can’t see his face. He hopes Weasley, Longbottom and the others are all occupied, because he can feel the way his smile bursts across his face. It’s so far from his usual distance, he’s sure everyone who sees him must know his secret. The fact that Draco’s morning got brighter and better because – just for a moment – Harry Potter deigns to smile back.

Draco’s gaze lingers on Harry’s face and lips, until he turns away.

*

When night finally falls, Draco finds Harry in the Room of Hidden Things. He doesn’t have his mirror with him this time, and the room is like a Muggle house with a squishy sofa covered with dizzying floral print. 

“I like what you’ve done to the place,” Draco mutters. 

“Evening.” Harry lifts his head from his hands and gives Draco a quick smile. “Chocolate?” He offers Draco a bar of chocolate, half-eaten and crumpled.

“No thanks.” Draco eyes the bar with disdain. “Have you been carrying that around all day?”

“In case of Dementors.” Harry shrugs, and Draco nods. He should have remembered Potter has more ghosts than most. 

“There’s not much happiness to suck out of the air these days.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Harry pulls a face and pops a piece of chocolate into his mouth. He closes his eyes and savours the taste, the very act of eating chocolate making him look younger than usual.

Draco’s not sure where to sit. The sofa looks barely big enough for two, but the leather armchairs from his last visit are nowhere to be seen. He takes a breath and sits next to Harry, their legs brushing together and heat flooding through his body.

“It’s a bit small.” Harry’s voice is gruff, and tinged with apology. “Sorry about that. I must have been thinking about The Burrow.”

“I can move.” Draco closes his eyes and hopes he can conjure up another chair, but because nothing else appears he suspects neither of them really want him the extra distance. “Or…not.”

“Not,” Harry confirms. He turns to Draco and he looks as if he’s going to say something. His gaze is questioning, and his lips begin to form the words Draco isn’t ready to hear. We can’t do this. We need to focus on winning the war. No distractions. No future, not for us.

Instead of letting Harry speak, Draco leans forward to kiss him. It’s desperate and forceful, and Harry opens his mouth to the kiss with a groan. It’s clumsier and less practiced than before, and Harry grips Draco’s tie to pull him closer as if his life depends on kissing Draco.

Somewhere between the first kiss, the second and the third, Draco finds himself pushed back onto the sofa while the weight of Harry’s body settles over him. Harry isn’t seductive tonight – he’s hot with desire and need. His kisses are firm and biting, and his hands circle around Draco’s wrists. Draco’s dizzy with the sensation. He’s never felt _devoured_ before, but the way Harry kisses is like a man possessed. He tugs Draco’s lip between his teeth and slides his hand over Draco’s torso, rubbing his thumb over his nipple through the thin cotton of his shirt and yanking at his tie while he rocks against him, his cock hard and eager.

“ _Fuck_ , Malfoy.” Harry pulls back momentarily, his pupils blown wide with arousal and his eyes dark. “Too…too much?”

“No.” Not enough, Draco wants to say. He’s desperate to feel something other than the come down from his potions. “Don’t stop.”

Strange, redundant words. They don’t give away too much but at the same time, they give away everything. Don’t _ever_ stop, he wants to say. He wonders if Harry wants to fuck him, and how that works. He wonders if Potter’s done this before – if he has any idea what he’s doing.

“You’re sure?” Harry’s breath is sweet with chocolate, his words thick with arousal. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” He laughs, and that answers that question.

“Neither do I,” Draco confesses. He tugs Harry down for another chocolate covered kiss and their mouths part, their tongues moving together and their lips rough and urgent. The heavy, ragged sound of Harry’s breathing makes Draco groan into the kiss and Harry pushes his hand down between them to palm roughly at Draco’s cock.

“Fucking hell.” Draco presses into Harry’s hand to show him it’s still good – so fucking good it makes his head spin. He unbuttons Harry’s shirt just to feel his skin. Harry’s chest is warm against his palms, and his heart beats steadily against Draco’s fingertips. Harry’s heart is constant and strong. It’s not like Draco’s – ripped apart and fluttering every time Potter looks at him just so. 

Draco pushes Harry back and slides to the floor, tugging apart Harry’s trousers. He swallows when he releases Harry from his trousers and pants. He’s glorious. Long, hard and wanting. With a growl, Draco slides his mouth over Harry’s cock and takes him as deep as he can. He’s never done this before but he read magazines a long time ago when things like sex seemed more important than anything.

Harry slips his hand into Draco’s hair, and he’s not gentle. Draco doesn’t care to think too much about how much he likes Harry’s roughness and urgency. Harry pushes into Draco’s mouth, his hand clenching and twisting. He murmurs something under his breath – something obscene which makes Draco’s cock twitch with appreciation. He pushes his hand into his trousers, stroking his cock while Harry holds him down over his prick with a low groan of appreciation.

It doesn’t take long before Harry comes down his throat, and Draco’s hand turns sticky with his own seed. He pulls off Harry when he’s captured every last bit of his climax. Harry is flushed, and he keeps his eyes closed. Draco wonders if Potter’s ever going to want to look at him again.

_Open your eyes. Fuck you, Potter. Open your eyes._

“I’m sorry.” Harry sits back afterwards, his tie askew. He buckles his trousers with trembling hands and his cheeks heat further. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“You’re _queer_ , Potter.” Draco replies, tightly. “And you’re just a horny teenager like the rest of us.” He doesn’t want to feel the full force of Harry’s shame now – he wants to luxuriate in the bruises on his wrists and the way he aches pleasantly all over. He wants to savour the rough note to his usually smooth voice. 

“Perhaps.” Harry looks uncertain still, and finally meets Draco’s eyes. He tidies his shirt, tucking it into his trousers. He stands and looks back over his shoulder before leaving. “Be careful, Malfoy. There’s nothing safe about this place anymore.”

There’s you, Draco wants to say but he’s not sure Harry’s safe at all anymore, so he doesn’t say a word.

*

It’s less than a week later when the corridors fill with a silent line of students staring at the next victim. This time there’s blood and it’s fresh on the walls, as if the Chamber of Secrets is open again. Ginny Weasley is one of the first on the scene, and she stares at the writing on the wall as if it haunts her. Draco can’t help but notice that when Longbottom blusters in, she can’t quite meet his eyes.

He wonders what she has to hide.

It’s Corner. Draco’s blood chills and he stares at the face that twisted with anger, calling him a Death Eater only days before. He hangs upside down in the air, caught at the ankles by invisible strings of magic. His hands point down to the floor, his fingers covered in blood and his skin pale and ghostly looking. He’s smiling. His lips stretch into a macabre grin which bares his teeth, and his eyes are glassy and unmoving. 

“Is he dead?”

Longbottom shakes his head and stares at Draco. He doesn’t have to say a word. His distrust is written all over his face, and Draco knows he’s replaying the same fight spinning in Draco’s head. His hands shake and he shoves them in his pockets so no one can accuse him of being a coward. 

Ginny’s fingers slide over the blood until they too are red and sticky. Her face pales and she turns her hand from side to side.

“You might want to concentrate on your _girlfriend_ instead of me,” Draco hisses when Longbottom gives him another look.

Before Longbottom’s hand can curl into a fist and swing into a punch, Weasley arrives with Parkinson close behind.

“Neville, don’t!” Weasley catches Longbottom’s hand and shakes his head, flashing Draco a glare. “First on the scene, Malfoy? What a coincidence. Only I don’t believe in coincidences. Never have.”

“I doubt Draco would have anything to do with this.” Pansy’s eyes widen as she takes in Michael, her cheeks flushed and a strange smile on her lips. “I mean, he’s practically impotent.”

Draco resists the urge to show Pansy exactly what he’s still capable of doing after a year of watching and learning from the Death Eaters. He remembers the one spell – the kind that could slice someone all over just enough to bleed them dry but not enough to touch any major artery. For one blissful moment it’s Pansy upside down, her lips ruby red and her face vacant. 

Then Potter arrives and Draco’s thoughts leave him in a rush, to be replaced with searing heat and a rapidly increased heartbeat. 

“Michael.” Potter and Weasley exchange glances, and a flash of something passes between them.

“What does it mean?” Weasley points at the writing on the wall, and furrows his brow.

“It’s Latin, Weasley.” Draco keeps his voice steady and resists the urge to sneer at Weasley. It’s a fine sort of Slytherin that isn’t fluent in Latin. “Pulvis et umbra sumus.”

“We are dust and shadows,” Pansy finishes. She shivers and clutches Weasley’s hand. “What does it mean?”

Potter’s face pales and he murmurs quietly. “It means someone is going to die.”

Draco knows that’s not quite right but with the air hanging heavy and oppressive around them, and the stretched-out smile on Corner’s face it feels perfectly prophetic.

“The question is, who’s next?” Weasley looks around those gathered, and Potter’s fingers brush against Draco’s.

The touch sends a charge through Draco’s body and he closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look into the face of death anymore. All he wants is Harry’s hand in his own, another dose of his potion and to feel the warmth of the sun on his cheeks.

For the first time since his return to Hogwarts, Draco doesn’t want to die.

He wants to live. He wants it desperately, with every steady beat of his tattered heart.

He wants to live for Potter.

Harry’s fingers sleep into Draco’s and for one blissful moment when nobody else is looking, Harry squeezes their hands together and everything else slips away.

*

The announcement is made that night over supper in the Great Hall. Carrow stands at the lectern which now has the shape of a gilded snake, with its fangs bared. 

“We are aware there have been a number of attacks recently on halflings.” Carrow smiles and his lips stretch out, thin and red. His eyes flick across the room and settle on Draco before moving on. “We would like to applaud your ingenuity.” Carrows eyes flicker and there’s a smattering of polite applause from the Slytherins. Draco looks at the Gryffindor table, where Potter looks as if he’s going to throw up – his face white and his hands clenched into a fist.

“We ask that you come forward.” Carrow narrows his eyes, smiling in the same obscene manner. “The Dark Lord wishes to pass on his personal congratulations.”

There’s a gasp, and a low murmur begins around the room. Potter gets to his feet and looks as if he’s going to start shouting, and Draco’s blood runs cold.

_Sit down, Harry. Sit the fuck down. Don’t say anything, don’t let them hurt you._

Finnigan yanks Potter’s shirt and hisses something at him, which seems to do the trick. Harry sits and looks at his food with his lips pressed in a tight, furious line.

It’s only when Carrow flicks his wand to indicate supper has commenced, that Draco realises his hands are shaking.

*

When Draco finds himself in the Shrieking Shack, he knows this meeting is different. It’s just the core group this time – Harry, Weasley, Ginevra, Luna and Longbottom. Draco knows he’s not part of the group. He’s here because Harry insisted on it, and Longbottom complained about it for the entirety of their journey through a dark, musty passageway thick with soil and overrun with large beetles.

“This is new.” Draco looks around the dusty room with disdain, keeping his hands folded in his lap so he doesn’t have to touch things.

Everybody ignores him, and Potter turns his mirror in his hands. “She’s coming.”

Draco keeps quiet and shivers when there’s a crack of magic and a girl in a dark cloak Apparates into the dusty room, sending a cloud of dust into the air. 

Granger. 

She drops her hood and then her and Potter are laughing and hugging, kissing each other on the cheeks as if – 

No, that can’t be right. Draco’s stomach turns and his cheeks flush hot with jealousy. Not when Potter’s practically coming out to Draco. He casts a glance at Weasley, whose lips are set in a grim line. Under any other circumstances it would make Draco fill with glee.

“Ron.” Hermione pulls back from Harry’s embrace, and looks at Weasley who gives her a tight nod. Her face clouds and his cheeks flush red. After a loaded pause, he stands and embraces her. They hold onto each other in the same way Draco wants to hold onto Harry – tightly, clinging as if they’ve come home at last.

“Missed you.”

“You too,” Weasley replies, his voice gruff. They don’t kiss, but they pull back and stare at one another until Harry clears his throat.

“There’s been another attack. Michael Corner.”

Hermione sits and runs her hand over her cheek, her eyes filling with tears. She exchanges a glance with Ginny, who looks more sombre than usual. “Is he alive?”

“Barely.” Potter’s voice is tight, his hands clenched. “Do you have news from Snape?”

A flood of emotion rushes through Draco and he stares at Potter. “Severus is alive?”

Hermione studies Draco as if he’s a difficult problem that needs to be worked out. “He’s not fully recovered. He lost a number of his memories in the attack, and we’re helping him try to retrieve those that could be important to the war effort. His larynx has been severely damaged, but he remembers enough to be able to brew a remedy and it appears to be working. He’s been helping.”

“Of course he has.” Draco lets out a laugh which sounds too high, too false and too bright to be real. He wishes he had more of his potion – just enough to help him act like he’s not hanging on to his sanity by a thread. “You trust him?”

“Him, yes.” Weasley’s implications are clear, and to her credit Hermione glares at him. A flood of unexpected affection for Granger floods through Draco, and he settles back when Harry takes a seat next to him. He has allies, and from what he’s seen his allies are the important ones – the ones who’ll fight for him – the ones _he’ll_ fight for, if it comes to that. Harry, Lovegood, Granger. Even Ginny, sometimes, because of the moments when Weasley and Parkinson are thick as thieves and she looks across the Slytherin common room at her brother as if she’s watching a stranger. Not for the times she looks at Harry as if he’s king of the world. Never for those.

“We’ve been working on something.” Hermione is hesitant and she looks around the gathered group. “Severus thinks the attacks might be caused by someone acting under the Imperius curse. They used it a lot in the First War, and with Mulciber’s new post at Hogwarts it makes sense. That’s his speciality, apparently.

Harry looks around those gathered, his face grim. “I don’t think the staff have any idea who’s doing it. They are offering rewards if the attacker comes forward.”

“They’re Death Eaters, Harry.” Hermione explains it patiently, as if she’s teaching a class. “None of them trust one another. It’s quite possible one of them is acting alone.”

“She’s right.” Draco’s voice is hoarse and he clears his throat. “If there’s an opportunity to curry favour with the Dark Lord they won’t be prepared to share the glory.”

“You’d know all about that, I suppose.” Weasley snorts and turns his eyes to the ceiling.

“Severus says we can trust him.” Hermione speaks quietly and Harry’s hand rests on Draco’s knee, burning through his trousers and sending heat coursing over his skin.

“And I believe him.” Harry squeezes briefly, and then folds his hands in his lap before anyone can see the touch.

“If someone’s using Imperius, they’re not going to use Malfoy.” Surprisingly, Longbottom pipes up and he casts a glance at Draco. “I don’t think I’d choose him if I was trying to do something undercover. I’d choose someone…”

“Good?” Draco gives Longbottom a sneer. “Is anybody good anymore?”

There’s a silence and nobody responds.

“We’ve been working on a potion. It’s like Veritaserum, but it’s more powerful. If someone’s been under the Imperius Curse, it will bring their memories to the forefront. We’d like to use it.” Hermione’s voice dips. “We go first. All of us. We need to know who we can trust.”

Draco thinks of the potions in his drawer and the careful, illicit brewing. He thinks of his nights dreaming about Potter – his nights _loving_ Potter. His cheeks warm and he presses his lips together. 

If he takes the potion it’s all going to come out. Every last pathetic skip of his heart and desperate need for Harry. His clever brewing is going to be exposed to everyone, his heart exposed.

“I won’t.” His voice is icy cold and Weasley stares at him before looking at Hermione with a shake of his head.

“Nor me. It’s stupid, I’m not under any kind of curse. Don’t you think you’d know if I was?”

“I think it’s a terrible idea.” Ginny’s face is white, and she looks pleadingly at Hermione.

“I agree.” Longbottom can’t look at Harry, his gaze fixed on Ginny and his eyebrows knitting in a frown as if he’s wondering if there’s something else – something other than their clandestine fumblings in the Hogwarts corridors.

“Harry?” Hermione looks at Harry, her face pale. They stare at each other for one charged moment and again Draco has that same feeling of falling into the abyss. “Will you do it?”

Harry looks from Draco to Hermione, his cheeks turning red. He stares at Ron, and then looks back at Hermione, pulling a face. “You’re going to take it?”

“Yes.” Hermione holds Harry’s gaze and he sighs, raking his hand through his hair.

“Then I have nothing to lose.”

Luna’s laugh breaks the charged silence, a strange laugh which fills the room like shards of broken glass falling to the floor. It’s bells ringing, it’s high and unnatural. It teeters on the brink of sanity and cuts through the atmosphere.

“Secrets.” She laughs again and holds Draco’s gaze, her smile warm and her cheeks pink. “Everybody has so many secrets. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?”

Draco swallows and he gives Lovegood a forced smile, his voice thankfully steady. “Always you, Lovegood.”

Luna smiles, and the warmth of it heats Draco from head to toe. Her voice lowers and she speaks as if they’re the only people in the room. “I think you’re my favourite.” Her expression falters and she frowns at Draco, looking sad. “Your heart was broken.”

“Yes,” Draco replies, tightly. “But it’s all better now.”

Luna looks at Harry and she smiles again, a brilliant smile. “Has he fixed it?”

“Me and Hermione.” Harry clears his throat and avoids looking at Draco. “Isn’t that right, Malfoy?”

Draco nods, his mouth dry. “In a manner of speaking.”

They make their way back to the school in tense silence, punctuated only when Luna begins to sing a song about mirrors and bottomless lakes.


	8. The Midnight Duel

_“Honey, I wanna break you, I wanna throw you to the hounds, I gotta hurt you, I gotta hear from your mouth. Boy, I wanna taste you, I wanna skin you with my tongue...Desire, I'm hungry, I hope you feed me. How do you want me?_

(Meg Myers – Desire)

Her breath stinks of milk-gone-off when she leans across the desk. Her beady eyes fix his, and he can almost see himself in the inky blackness of her dilated pupils. She’s so excited, so pleased with him, with all that he’s done for the cause.

How can she think he’s done anything? All he does is follow Harry around -- follow his Saviour to the edge of the earth and back again and wait for the moment when he becomes useful. Is he worth anything at all to anyone?

His heart always beats so fast when she looks at him. Draco turns his head and gazes out the window. The grounds are so beautiful in the late winter, all sparkling white. Nothing like the darkness. He cannot see himself. Just the reflection of the dazzling snow. Just the light.

“Well, boy, have you an answer?” Carrow asks, drawing his attention back. “I know you must be eager to regain your Lord’s favour.”

He is; Draco wants so badly to regain his Lord’s favour, except that his Lord is no longer the man she supposes him to be. His Lord is Harry, and Harry alone deserves his loyalty.

“I’ll gladly root out mudbloods,” Draco says, voice unwavering. “But I haven’t yet.”

Carrow’s mouth pinches up in an ugly pout. “Just as useless as your father had been. Glad to see the back of him, I was,” she says meanly.

Draco doesn’t rise to the bait. His Father’s death holds no more sorrow for him anymore; he only uses it as a reminder to keep pushing forward. He wants to avoid the same fate.

“Detention,” she adds, with a dismissive wave of her hand, “to be served with Professor Rowle.”

Now Draco panics. “No! I...I’ll find who--”

She interrupts him, “-- _detention_ to be served with Professor Rowle.” Her smile grows wide and chilling. “I know he’s been itching to get a chance at...rehabilitating you.”

Revenge is not rehabilitation, he thinks.

*

"You'll be okay," says Harry, as he slides a hand through Draco’s hair. "You're strong, you can handle whatever Rowle puts to you."

"You don't know that though," he replies. His eyes flutter closed and he nearly hums with pleasure at the feel of Harry's fingers dancing along his scalp. "And I'm not so strong, which you do very well know."

"No, you are," Harry's fingers tighten around a few strands and tug gently, "or you're getting stronger anyway. You're not...you're not the same person I knew before."

Draco stiffens in Harry’s arms. He can't know, can he? Draco’s been so careful to hide everything -- the ingredients, the cauldron, the storage vials, and especially the dosage he always has on hand. No, Harry can't possibly know the truth. Harry isn’t like Severus, who Draco is terrified to attempt contacting even though the two-way mirror in his pocket would provide the means and he wants desperately to see that his godfather, his mentor and friend is still alive. He can’t because Severus would take one look at Draco and know the truth about him, about the way he’s made certain to survive in the hellish landscape he’s found himself in.

Everything is so dramatic sometimes, and Draco frowns at himself in his head.

"I'm still me," he then replies carefully. Harry can’t know the secret.

"Of course you are, but I just mean," Harry pauses and strokes his hands down Draco’s arms, "you're more than you were."

Draco doesn’t answer. Harry obviously has no idea who he is anymore, but he doesn't care because if Harry believes he's good, that he’s better than he was, then maybe it means that he’s finally cracked the code of what it means to be like Harry: to be kind and good and desired and needed and worthy of love. Maybe his luck has changed at last.

He slides down off the couch, briefly ignoring Harry’s noise of protest, and settles between Harry's legs on his knees.

“Oh,” Harry says, and his lips curve up in a smile, as he cants his hips forward.

Draco carefully undoes Harry’s flies and takes out his cock. He strokes it a few times, but Harry’s already quite hard for him, which Draco takes as a very large compliment. He’s never been so on fire for someone else in his life -- not that he’s had much experience before or that he’s had much of a chance to look for something like that; but it doesn’t matter because Harry makes him feel like all the strange things that have happened before, all the terrible things he’s done and all the shit they have to deal with on a daily basis don’t mean anything at all. The only thing that matters is that they have each other now. After so much time spent fighting, pushing, hating, now they have something else to build.

It’s terrifying, Draco thinks, but a different kind of terrifying from the kind that awaits them out there in the castle. This is the kind of terrifying that people relish, and for once, Draco is going to be the kind of person who doesn’t run away from it.

“Yes, Draco, just like that,” Harry says, nearly sighing, as Draco runs his tongue experimentally from root to tip. Harry rests his hand on Draco’s head and then tips his head back to rest on the back of the couch.

There’s a part of Draco that wants Harry to grip his head tighter, tug hard on his hair. He likes it so much when Harry plays rough, but this...this is really nice too, this calmness. He can really concentrate on the feel of Harry in his mouth -- the slide of skin against the roof of his mouth or over his tongue, the little twitches of Harry’s hips that push him in further, just a little further.

Draco laves his tongue over the head of Harry’s cock, suckling like it’s a particularly delicious sugar quill, and Harry lets out a soft cry of approval. “Fuck, Draco, yes,” he moans, and his hand tightens briefly around the crown of Draco’s head before easing off again.

Inhaling and exhaling carefully through his nose, Draco slides his mouth down, swallowing and working his throat until he’s got nearly the whole length inside him. Harry holds him there for just a moment before Draco slides back along, letting his tongue press firmly along the underside of Harry’s cock on the way up again.

“Draco, you’re so--fuck!” Harry cuts off on a curse, as Draco swallows down again quickly, hollowing his cheeks to create a tight channel. “Yes, Draco, yes, please!”

Harry’s hips begin to jerk forward, he’s close, Draco recognises, and he smiles around his mouthful of Harry’s cock. Harry just tastes so good, and Draco’s certain that if he could spend the rest of his life fucking Harry Potter, nothing terrible would ever happen again. Perhaps this was what he was waiting for all along -- this one thing. His luck might have run out several times before, but now that he’s made his own, he’s got the one thing he’s always needed.

Draco pulls back and blows gently on the head again, as Harry bucks up, nearly flying off the couch. “Come for me, Harry?” he asks, letting his lips brush against the sensitive skin of Harry’s inner thigh.

“Ye-yes, Draco, I want your… I want your--”

Draco swallows him down again and sucks, and just as he snakes his hand beneath Harry’s bollocks and presses a fingertip to that sensitive stretch of skin, Harry stills and then comes with a strangled, needy cry. Draco braces his hands on Harry’s thighs and swallows every last drop.

*

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there, breathing softly, his cheek resting against Harry’s inner thigh. He just feels so warm there, and Draco wishes that that warmth would spread through him too. Perhaps then he wouldn’t feel so cold, wouldn’t shiver so all the time. He only ever feels warm when Harry’s arms wrap around him, enfold him and make him feel safe.

 _There’s nothing safe here anymore,_ he remembers. Draco looks up, backs away a bit as Harry does up his flies again. Harry told him that, and if anyone knows the truth of this godforsaken place, it’s Harry.

“He’s going to try to kill me,” Draco then says quietly, evenly, despite the sudden terror lancing through him. “I’m going to walk into that classroom, and I’m not going to walk out again because he’s going to kill me.”

“No, he won’t,” Harry tries to assure him, but he doesn’t make a very convincing picture. His eyes are closed, and he breathes slowly and deeply with the satisfaction of one thoroughly sated. His hand reaches out, though, and Draco moves closer again to let Harry’s fingers sift through his hair once more.

“He will, though, I just know he will.” Draco closes his eyes as he starts to feel the near-constant tremors in his hands begin again. His fear is a monstrous crawling thing, wending its way through his body until it settles ice-cold in his shredded old heart. He can feel the pick-up in beats incrementally until it’s thundering, and he’s sure that Harry can hear it too. “I’m going to die. Again, again I’m going to die again!” he continues, shaking bodily now.

Would it be so bad? Yes, yes it would. Because he wouldn’t have Harry anymore, and Harry wouldn’t have him.

“Draco,” Harry whispers, and Draco’s eyes shoot open. “It’s going to be okay, I promise.”

“How--how do you--” Draco cuts off as Harry stands up and then reaches down to help Draco to his feet as well. “How are you always so certain?”

Harry cocks his head, thinking, as he settles his hands over Draco’s waist. “I suppose I just have to be,” he then answers, with a shrug of his shoulders.

Draco has never had that kind of confidence; the kind that’s almost blinding in its sheer bloody-mindedness. Slytherins are careful and prepare for as many possible outcomes as they can, but Gryffindors, they charge boldly forward and figure it out as they go, never doubting that they’re going to come out on top. Draco supposes that even though Harry failed last May to kill the Dark Lord, he still never thought for one second that in the end, he would lose. For Harry, the Battle of Hogwarts was not the last; no battle would be the last until Harry won it.

“Do you want me to train you privately? Is that what you’re asking?” Harry then asks, as he reaches up and draws his thumb over Draco’s lower lip. “I could if you wanted. I could teach you some defensive spells that they don’t cover anymore.”

“You could?” Draco asks, his eyes falling shut against the soft ministrations, as Harry’s thumb continues tracing, moving downward now along his jawline and up again to his lips. He kisses the tip of Harry’s thumb before he continues, “I mean, it might be helpful. If Rowle...if anyone really, if they attack me, you could show me some ways to defend myself, ways that aren’t, you know that aren’t…” he trails off on a soft whimper, as Harry slips around behind him and begins kissing his neck. “Please, Harry.”

“Of course I will,” Harry says against his skin.

Draco sighs, relieved. He knew he was right to have faith in Harry.

*

Rowle surprises Draco by not attacking him straight off the next night when he arrives for his detention. Instead, like so many professors before him, Rowle just sets Draco to writing lines and sits down at his desk. It makes no sense; but then, nothing really makes sense anymore. Everyone is hiding something and pretending that they aren't. Rowle must be hiding something too, must be waiting until Draco’s guard is down to do what he’s itching to do.

The door opens and Draco looks up to see Longbottom shoved through by Carrow. His eyes immediately land on Draco, and Draco hurriedly looks down at his lines again.

“What the bloody hell is this?” Rowle asks.

“Caught this one trying to sneak food to that group of fifth years down in the dung--” Carrow breaks off with a short laugh, catching himself, “--doing their detention with Filius.”

“And you’re bringing him to me?”

“There’s no one else free,” Carrow replies.

Rowle gets up from his desk and rounds it quickly. “Amycus, I’ve got the Malfoy brat tonight,” he says, and Draco studiously stares at his desk, unseeingly writing his lines as he was told to do.

“No one else is free, as I said.”

“But, I--”

“--no buts, or shall I have you take it up with our Lord?” Carrow says before turning abruptly and leaving the classroom.

Draco can hear the threat in Carrow’s tone, and he bites down on his lower lip to keep from making a noise. He remembers when the Carrows were nothing but brute strength in the Dark Lord’s army, and now their authority seems so absolute if they can throw around the Dark Lord’s name with impunity.

“Longbottom, to the seat next to Malfoy. You’ll be copying lines,” Rowle says, dully, and when Draco chances a glance up, he sees Rowle turn and walk dejectedly back to his desk. He throws his feet up on the desk and sits back, clearly disappointed.

Longbottom takes his seat next to Draco and takes a blank parchment from his bag. Draco glances into it and is surprised to see bits of what must have been some of Mrs Weasley’s food. “He let you keep it?” Draco mutters under his breath, soft enough that Rowle shouldn’t be able to hear him.

“Yeah, I was surprised too,” Longbottom quietly replies. “He had his hands all over it though, so I don’t exactly think it’s edible anymore.”

“No talking!” Rowle calls out menacingly. Draco exchanges a last glance with Longbottom and then returns his eyes to his parchment.

*

“We could probably leave,” Draco offers.

“No. It’s just lines, and besides,” Longbottom bitterly replies, eyes on their sleeping Professor up at the desk, “with my luck he’ll wake up the second we get out of these seats.”

Longbottom returns to his writing, as if he doesn’t even want to bother with Draco. Which is just fine with him, actually, as he doesn’t even like Longbottom all that much. He’s never liked Longbottom, and for a brief moment, Draco allows himself to try feeling the disdain and superiority he always used to feel whenever a pathetic excuse for a pure-blood wizard crossed his path. It’s a dull sensation, dull from disuse or perhaps from the fact that Draco can’t bring himself to hate the way he used to do. It seems a bit pointless when he’s fallen so far and become a pathetic excuse for a pure-blood wizard too.

There’s also the distinct possibility that pure-blood wizards have always been pathetic and Draco was just too blinded by the party line to see it.

Not that any of it matters. Nothing matters. Nothing but survival.

So despite that Draco would very much like to leave the room and not have to sit there wondering if, or more likely when, Rowle is going to attack him, he returns to his line-copying too. And when he glances over to see Longbottom staring off into space rather than writing, Draco narrows his eyes and says, “So how long exactly have you been fucking Ginny Weasley?”

“Merlin, Malfoy, what are you--” Longbottom hurriedly looks up at Rowle, but he’s still fast asleep, now slumped totally over on the desk and snoring quietly. “I’m not, that is, she and I aren’t, I’m not...I’m not _fucking_ her.”

He says the last so quietly, Draco barely hears him. He sets his quill down, smirking, and continues, “Are too. I saw you practically fucking her in the hallway the other day. Ought to be much more careful if you don’t want Harry to find out.”

Longbottom’s mouth drops open to protest further, but the wind easily falls from his sails, and he looks dejectedly down at his hands. “We’ve…” he begins, voice hoarse, “we’ve been seeing each other for a while now. Since the summer.”

Draco hums noncommittally.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” Longbottom says.

Shrugging, Draco says, “It’s not like you have anyone else to tell.”

“That’s rather the problem, actually.” He glances up at Rowle, who gives a large snore, and then turns to Draco again. “I keep telling her that it might just be better if we stopped hiding, but she’s not ready yet. And I don’t want to pressure her, but then I get in my own head about why she wants to keep hiding, and it’s just…” Longbottom flushes, clearly embarrassed, but about what specifically Draco doesn’t know.

“You think it would be better if you just told Harry Potter that you stole his girlfriend?”

“It wasn’t like that!” Longbottom insists, hissing through his teeth to avoid waking up Rowle. “I didn’t steal anyone, and anyway, Ginny isn’t a thing to be stolen! She’s a person, and she’s...she’s my...I lo--” He abruptly cuts himself off, flushing crimson.

Draco’s eyes widen and he leans over closer. “You love her?” he asks.

Longbottom nods, looking miserable.

“Oh,” is all Draco can say to that.

“Malfoy, please don’t say anything,” Longbottom pleads.

Draco is struck by the disgusting sense of pity that comes over him when he realises that he really doesn’t have any intention of sharing Longbottom’s secret with anyone. He has secrets of his own, of course; they all obviously have secrets that need keeping, and he’ll keep Longbottom’s too -- not just until it could be useful to him, but forever.

“Do you ever feel like everything is upside down?” Draco asks instead of promising.

Neville laughs then, hardened and bitter, before he says on a sigh, “Only every single day.”

*

His head is pounding as he paces back and forth before the place where the Room of Hidden Things will appear, making it hard for him to think straight enough to request a room to train in. He hadn’t eaten much at supper knowing it was probably poisoned or tampered with by the professors, and he’d stressed himself out thoroughly before and during his detention with Rowle. The headache settling between his eyes is nothing compared to the one Harry seems to be suffering near-constantly lately, though, and he knows he should get over himself. His pain is nothing compared to Harry’s pain.

The door finally appears, and Draco quickly enters. The room has created a replica of the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom under Professor Snape’s direction from last year, and Draco is hit with a powerful feeling of nostalgia and grief, until he remembers once again that Severus is alive, and his grief turns quickly to guilt again. He really should try the mirror. He’s feeling particularly normal and lucid right now, so what would be the harm? Perhaps Severus will have no idea.

Draco makes his way over to the practice ring and sits down on a stack of mats before he takes the mirror from his pocket. He stares into it for a few moments, wavering and just looking at himself. He barely recognises the person he’s looking at anymore. His eyes are fever-bright, but the dark circles underneath make him look completely mad rather than just interested.

A shadow crosses through the glass and Draco whips his head around, but he’s seated against the wall so no one could have moved behind him. He flicks a glance around the room, but nothing’s moved, and so he looks back at the mirror again, wary and concerned.

It flickers again, more obviously this time. Draco hurriedly stuffs it back into his robes pocket. He can try to contact Severus again some other time. Draco then fishes out a vial of potion, uncaps it and raises it to his lips. There’s not much left, and his hand is practically vibrating as he raises it, but he downs it quickly and the tremors cease almost instantly.

He wonders how much of it is only in his head. Psychosomatic, he thinks they call it. When his head controls his body instead of his heart.

The room starts to shift around him, and Draco clutches tightly to the mats. He hates being inside the Room of Hidden Things when it changes to suit the next person trying to come in. But it shouldn’t be changing if Harry’s coming; he and Harry want the same thing.

When Harry walks in, the Room has settled into an awkward sort of hybrid classroom/Burrow with the squishy, ugly couch alongside the practice mats and the dummies for practicing curses. He looks terribly confused, and frankly, it’s a little endearing. Harry’s always so certain-looking normally, even when he’s scared or angry or sweet or loving. There’s no doubts with him, and so when he looks a bit out of sorts, Draco cannot help but enjoy it.

“What’s going on?” Harry asks, gesturing towards the mats on which Draco is sitting.

“It’s for our duel,” Draco answers as he gets to his feet. He crosses to Harry, reaching out to pull him into a kiss.

“Our what?” Harry takes a step backwards and Draco freezes.

“Our...our duel? You had promised...you said we could--” Draco cuts himself off, as the Room starts to shift around them again. The dummies disappear and are replaced by the Weasley fireplace. Harry looks at him, confusion evident, and Draco’s stomach sinks. Did he even ask Harry for this the other day? Did he make all that tenderness up in his own addled head?

Nothing ever makes any sense anymore, so why should it be that Harry likes him and wants him?

“Sorry, Draco, yeah, yes of course,” Harry then says, shaking his head and offering a grim smile. “I suppose it just slipped my mind. There’s been so much…” He trails off and gestures uselessly at his forehead.

The relief is so powerful, Draco very nearly drops to his knees as the weight is lifted. He doesn’t know why he keeps doubting himself. It doesn’t matter that he can’t remember half of what he does each day now -- the potion always helps him make the right decisions, and he trusts it, if not his own mind.

And he trusts Harry too, of course. Even if Harry isn’t safe, even if no one is safe, he still trusts Harry. The dummies come back and the sofa disappears. Draco grins at Harry. “Scared?”

Harry’s lips curve up in that devastating smile, and then he laughs. “Really?”

Draco shrugs his shoulders and glances down, bashful.

“Okay, Malfoy...you wish.”

*

“You’re not concentrating hard enough.”

Draco’s hands curl into fists, frustration and anger warring within him. “I am too concentrating! Maybe you’re just a shit teacher!” he bites out, even though he knows it isn’t in the slightest bit true. Harry’s a fantastic teacher; he knows all about how he taught a bunch of fifteen-year-olds how to do a fucking Patronus Charm.

Harry’s eyes narrow, and he opens his mouth to retort, but manages to get himself enough under control not to answer with equal anger. “Try again, and this time, plant your feet better. You’re jumpy, and it gives you away.”

Draco wants to retort that of course he’s jumpy because someone is trying to murder him, but it won’t do any good, and anyway, Harry already knows that that’s the case. Instead, he takes a fortifying breath, firmly plants his feet and then waits, ready to defend himself as soon as Harry casts again.

Harry turns to walk away, but Draco remains motionless, and when Harry suddenly turns and lets fly a curse, Draco flicks his wand to cast a protection shield. He gets it up, but as soon as he attempts to throw a curse back at Harry, Harry dismantles the shield and fires off a cutting curse in quick succession.

“Fuck!” Draco cries out, and whatever shards of shield he’d managed to salvage dissolve instantly, as he drops his wand in surprise.

Harry’s immediately across the room, apology writ large on his face, even though his words are far from apologetic. “I told you that you weren’t concentrating. You can’t let the outside distractions get through. Sometimes a shield is all you really have,” he explains, even as he takes Draco’s injured hand in his own.

“And what the hell would you know about it?” Draco replies petulantly, the stinging in his hand from the cut making it difficult to play nice.

“Just trust me,” Harry answers. “And it’s only a shallow cut. You’re going to be fine.”

“Nothing’s ever fine anymore,” Draco mutters, defeated, as he stares at the blood now oozing from the cut.

“Don’t be so dramatic. _Sanus_ ” Harry says, as he waves his wand over the cut and Draco watches as the skin easily knits back together.

“Handy little spell.”

Harry nods, eyes fixed on the spot where the cut had been. “It shouldn’t leave a scar, but you might want to put some dittany on it anyway.”

Draco scoffs. “Might as well add it to the collection I’m building.”

Harry’s eyes flick to Draco’s face suddenly, and Draco wonders if Harry is finally going to apologise to him for slicing him open two years ago. But they’ve done so much to each other in the ensuing years, both for worse and for better now, that Draco doesn’t even know if he wants an apology or needs one. He thinks he’s probably forgiven Harry for it already, which pulls up the question of whether or not Harry has forgiven him for the multitude of infractions.

“I think have an idea,” Harry then says, and the moment for apologies seems very far away again.

Slightly suspicious, Draco takes a step back. “What’s your idea?”

“I think you might be having a bit of trouble because of...well, because of your wand.”

“My…” but Draco trails off, as a longing so profound it’s almost overwhelming sweeps through him at the thought of the wand Potter took from him a year ago. The wand had been an extension of him, his magic, his life, for so long, and Potter had taken it without so much as a thank you, and even as they had become friends and lovers and comrades-at-arms, he had never before even mentioned the fact that Draco might be able to have it back.

He isn’t angry though, which surprises him. He might have been angry then, but he’s not angry now at the thought. Harry had needed it, which is why he took it in the first place, even though Draco doesn’t know how or why. But Harry must not need it anymore because he’s offering...or is he offering?

“Can I have it back?” Draco then asks, breathless.

Harry watches him for a moment, as if trying to decide something incredibly important. Then, he nods. “It’s yours, after all,” he says.

Draco’s gratitude, even though he isn’t even holding the wand yet, pushes him towards Harry. He throws his arms around Harry’s waist and tugs him close for a bruising kiss. Harry drops his own wand, as their lips come together, and he wraps Draco in an embrace. One hand slides up his back and tangles in the hair at the back of his neck, tugging just a bit too hard, and Draco growls out his approval before he slips his tongue into Harry’s mouth, deepening the kiss.

Harry then slides down between Draco's legs, mouthing raggedly at his cock. "I just want," he murmurs, the words muffled by his lips pressed against Draco’s body.

Draco lets out a low moan of encouragement and thrusts his hips up, pressing himself again against Harry's mouth. He wants too, he wants so much.

Harry rips open Draco’s trousers with a spell and immediately tugs them down and off. “Oh, fuck, Draco...” he mutters when he notices that Draco isn’t wearing anything beneath them.

“I just...oh!” Draco cries out, as Harry tips forward and sucks Draco down in one smooth movement. He closes his eyes and, just for this moment, forgets that there are monsters out there in the world outside.


	9. Veritaserum

_Now I'm standing in the wounds of my ambition and my vision is deserting me…I saw that diamond road and I took it, I made a lot of friends but they were crooked, a cold hand reached out and I shook it...I made so many mistakes, now it’s too late…”_

(Daniel Isaiah - High Twilight)

When he makes his way to Potions class, Draco can still feel Harry’s mouth on his body and the tug of Harry’s hands in his hair. He bites back a smile because nobody should look giddy when the school’s overrun with Death Eaters and the castle walls ache with the burden of Dark magic. 

The thought of their predicament sobers Draco, and he leans against the stone walls, feeling the magic thrum through his skin. The stone is sharp and cool against his skin and he focuses on the beating of his heart and the memories of Harry’s rough kisses and searching gaze to push away the unpleasant reality. 

“There’s no time to loiter, Draco, hurry along.” Pansy’s shrill voice breaks Draco’s peaceful solitude and he glares at her, biting back a cross retort. Speaking of unpleasant things, he wants to say, but doesn’t.

“What’s the hurry?”

“Another attack.” Pansy’s face is paler than usual and she ushers Draco forwards. “ _Quickly_.”

Draco’s mouth goes dry, his memories of Harry too fresh for him to imagine it could be anybody else. Images of Harry’s stricken face and bloodied hands fill his mind, and he forces out his words. “Who?”

Pansy tugs her bottom lip between her teeth, looking over her shoulder and walking quickly. “Finnigan.”

The wave of relief which overwhelms Draco is closely followed by a gnawing sense of guilt. Finnigan had stood up for Draco once, after all.

“Is he alive?” Draco looks over his shoulder, wanting to go towards the scene as opposed to run away from it. He imagines Weasley and Potter in pretend-Auror mode, exchanging glances and grim looks at the demise of another of their number. Not for the first time, he notes how Harry has changed him. There was a time he gladly would have walked the other way to play cards with Greg or eat expensive truffles with Pansy, bragging about his connections with the Dark Lord.

“Yes. Just like all of the others. He looks…” Pansy raises tear stained cheeks and wide eyes to Draco. “Oh _Draco_.”

When Pansy flings herself into his arms and cries noisily on Draco’s shoulder, he supposes he should be glad he’s back in favour. With Pansy on side – and it would be so very easy to ply her with his wealth and family connections – he could quickly regain his footing in Slytherin once again. He could remind Zabini that Weasley is a blood traitor. He could roll up his sleeves and display the Dark Mark – the mark even some of the Hogwarts staff haven’t been bestowed with. 

For one delirious moment, Draco thinks he just might. To hell with Weasley and his games. Draco could show him what it _really_ means to be a Slytherin. 

Instead, Harry’s face flashes before his mind. He pictures the remaining members of Dumbledore’s Army looking accusingly at him, with an _I told you so_ look of collective triumph. He wonders if Longbottom or Weasley could win the war without Potter. He doubts it. 

“Damn you, Potter.”

“What was that?” Pansy lifts her head and narrows her eyes, a flare of suspicion in her gaze. “What about Potter?”

“Nothing.” Draco extracts himself from Pansy’s clutches and gives her one of his best sneers. “Do stop crying, Parkinson. These are expensive robes.”

Pansy glares at Draco and folds her arms. “Who do you think you are? You’re nothing anymore, Draco. Nothing.”

“You’re wrong.” The potion works its way through Draco’s veins and the memories of Harry’s kisses linger on his lips. “I’m Draco Malfoy.” His heart pounds in his chest, beating because of Harry. Beating _for_ Harry. “I’m Draco Malfoy,” he repeats, his voice soft and not even looking at Parkinson anymore. “And that’s _everything_.”

Without a backward glance, he leaves Pansy staring after him and makes his way in the opposite direction with trepidation. He doesn’t want to see Finnigan suspended in the air, his face pale and bloodless. He doesn’t want to know about the prophetic Latin phrases written in blood on the walls. He doesn’t want to hear the walls of Hogwarts groaning under the weight of another student lost to the wrong side. He wants the comfort of his own bed, and a slice of rich chocolate cake. But these days his home belongs to madmen and the sanctuary of the Slytherin common room has been overtaken by Weasleys. His father won’t watch him fly ever again, or give him the look that makes Draco’s chest burst with pride when he brings home the results from his exams. There’s no such thing as home anymore, and the only sanctuary Draco has is Harry.

He shakes off his fear and walks quickly, with singular purpose.

For whatever fucked up reason, Harry needs him and Draco doesn’t have any intention of denying him.

*

The Dumbledore’s Army meeting after the attack on Finnigan is a sombre affair. The students still brave enough to demonstrate an allegiance to anyone other than the Dark Lord are pale-faced and ashen, and the room is thick with tension. Small groups huddle together, and a couple of the younger students jump when the door clicks open.

There’s an audible sigh of relief when Harry steps through, closing the door and tapping his wand to the walls as the door disappears. He seems to be listening for something, and Draco wonders if Harry feels it too – the pain of the castle walls as Dark magic runs through the stone. 

“Any word on Seamus?” Longbottom approaches Harry, placing a gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry turns and he shakes his head, nearly leaning on Longbottom.

“No change. They’ve taken him to St Mungo’s with the others. Shacklebolt’s been notified. They’ve got a proper Healer looking after him – one we can trust.” Dark circles frame Harry’s eyes, and his scar seems brighter than usual. He runs his hand over it with a wince.

Ginny joins Longbottom by Harry’s side. She takes his hand and leads him to a seat. “You look like you haven’t slept at all. Sit, Harry. You need to keep alert. It’s not safe for you here – it’s not safe for any of us.”

Harry’s throat bobs and his gaze lands on Draco. Heat rises in Draco’s cheeks because he knows precisely why Harry didn’t sleep last night. 

“I’ll be fine, Gin.” Harry flashes one of his slow, half-formed smiles at Ginny and runs his hand over the stubble on his cheek. “I just need a decent night and…chocolate.” Triumphant, Harry holds a small bar aloft and pops a square in his mouth. He settles back in a lopsided armchair with a sigh of contentment. “Better already.”

“Why hasn’t Shacklebolt found any answers yet?” Longbottom looks nearly as bad as Harry. He doesn’t even bother trying to hide from Harry when he slips his hand into Ginny’s. “Or do the Order expect you to find all the answers these days? You’re still a teenager for fucks sake and he was _Minister_. They must be able to do something!”

Harry’s eyes flicker to Ginny’s hand twined in Longbottom’s. He looks up and meets Longbottom’s eyes and his lips curve into a tired smile as he tips his fingers against his head in a strange salute. Longbottom smiles back, Ginny flushes and Harry relaxes again. 

Not for the first time, Draco marvels at the way Gryffindors do things. The fact Harry doesn’t seem to give two hoots about Longbottom and Weasley pleases him and he resists the urge to slip his hand into Harry’s in a Longbottom-like declaration. _He’s mine_ , the gesture would say. What have you got to say about _that_? But Draco isn’t a Gryffindor, and he’s not one for bold gestures so he stays seated without saying a word. 

“Shacklebolt’s doing what he can.” Harry’s voice lacks his usual confidence. For the first time Harry looks broken and defeated. He’s quiet and he looks at Draco again, confusion etched on his face. “It’s not just Hogwarts students he has to think about. There was another attack on a Muggle village last night. They’re fighting a war, just like us. He doesn’t have much time to read books lately.”

Longbottom shrugs, and doesn’t respond, his face fixed in a worried frown.

“We could speak to Pomfrey,” Weasley interjects. “See what she thinks about it all. We might be able to do our own research if Shacklebolt doesn’t have time.”

Luna suspends her two-way mirror in the air with clever magic, and turns it in steady circles. “You’re looking in all the wrong places, asking all the wrong questions. It’s not how, it’s _who_.”

Draco narrows his eyes at Lovegood, watching the mirror spin. “That’s easy. It’s me, isn’t it? That’s what they all think.”

“Not me.” Luna looks at Draco and gives him a smile which lights up the room. “Not Harry, either.”

“I can keep an eye on the Slytherins – see if anyone’s acting up.” Weasley looks enormously self-satisfied and Draco resists the urge to point out that keeping an eye on Slytherins only covers one quarter of the school.

“All the wrong places,” Luna repeats and spins the mirror again. Draco catches glimpses of their reflections blurred against the silver surface which turns in the air, a kaleidoscope of colours. “It’s not someone _outside_. It’s something _inside_.”

The murmurs in the room increase, and those gathered cast looks of suspicion at their own. Draco twists his hands in his lap when a couple of people look in his direction, bestowing them with one of his best sneers. 

“Inside this group, you mean?” Ginny looks doubtful and her brow furrows momentarily as she looks at Weasley. “What would any of us have to gain?”

“Everything.” Luna turns to face Ginny, catching the mirror in her hand. “And nothing at all. There’s everything to win and everything to lose.”

“What do you think, Harry?” Still frowning, Ginny turns her attention to Harry. He’s still eating his chocolate and listening to Luna, with his head tipped to one side as he thinks. He pushes his glasses onto his nose and shrugs.

“I don’t think the attacks serve any purpose. I think it’s _sport_. What would anyone here have to gain by that?”

“Coveting favour,” Draco replies. He should know, after all. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not to us.” Weasley gives Draco another look which implies the fact it’s obvious to Draco speaks volumes.

Luna hums her agreement. “They’ll hide where you least expect it, and play games with you all.” She stares at Draco momentarily, her expression caught between smile and frown. “Checkmate.”

Despite himself, Draco shivers. An icy hand grips his heart and he looks at the assembled faces of those gathered around, murmuring under their breath. He doesn’t trust half of them, and he can see from the looks he’s getting that not a single one of them trusts him.

“What have you got to say to _that_ , Malfoy?” Weasley’s looking at Draco, who resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“We’ve had this conversation before, Weasley. If Lovegood’s right, it’s hardly going to be me. I wouldn’t exactly say I’ve gained your trust, would you?” 

“Mine, no. But perhaps it’s not my trust you’re after.” Weasley glances at Harry, who is quiet and deep in thought.

Draco waves his hand around the room with a snort of derision. “Look at you all. You already think I’m guilty.” He rolls up his sleeve and brandishes his Dark Mark, anger coiling in in his stomach. He thrusts his arm forward to gasps and winces. “I already _had_ his favour. I’ve known your secrets for months. I could do much more damage than attack a few half-bloods if I wanted.”

“That’s reassuring.” Harry raises his eyebrows at Draco. “You are trying to convince them it’s _not_ you, aren’t you?”

“I was.” Draco gives Harry a small smile, and Harry’s lips twitch. His eyes flare as they connect with Draco’s and it’s all Draco wants to do to lose himself in Harry’s arms while the rest of the world disappears.

Ginny huffs and looks irritated. “We get it, Malfoy. You’re very evil. I don’t give a flying Hippogriff anymore. I just want to know what we’re going to do. At the moment we’re just sitting around, arguing and pointing fingers at each other. It’s stupid and pointless. We need to _do_ something. Harry?”

Harry speaks firmly, back to the confident Potter of all. “Gin’s right. Luna, too. We need to meet you know who, and the sooner the better.”

“Good one, Harry.” Weasley pales and shudders.

Harry laughs, and the tension is broken. “The other you know who, you prat. The clever one.”

“Oh.” Weasley grins. “Your code names need work, mate.”

Harry shrugs and he looks around the assembled group who stare at Harry, clinging onto the hope that only Harry can seem to generate.

“We’re going to meet one of our sources to obtain a supply of potions which every member of Dumbledore’s Army will be required to take. The potion will tell us if you’ve been exposed to Imperius, and works like a stronger version of Veritaserum. If we can’t trust each other, I reckon we’ve already lost.”

There’s a murmur of reluctant assent, and Justin Finch-Fletchley puts up his hand.

“How do we know we can trust your source, Harry? You’re asking us all to take a potion completely blind. It could be a trap.”

“I trust my source with my life, and I’ll take the first drink of whatever they prepare if it helps.” Harry gestures to a third year Hufflepuff that Draco doesn’t recognise.

“Susan?”

“I wanted to give you this.” The girl’s cheeks flush pink and she stands, pulling an enormous book from her bag. The weighty tome releases a cloud of dust and the Ravenclaw next to Susan sneezes and fixes her with a glare. “Sorry about that.” 

“What’s this?” Harry takes the offered book and Susan watches him shyly. Draco wonders if everyone adores Harry, and he arches his eyebrow at Susan whose cheeks flush further. 

“My dad sent me this. He managed to disguise it by…never mind.” Susan realises all eyes are on her and taps her finger on the cover of the book, warming to her theme. “I told him all about the attacks because they’re so _awful_ and he sent me this because they reminded him of something – something strange. My dad’s very clever. He’s written lots of books on Defence Against the Dark Arts. He’s an academic.” Susan pushes her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose and beams at Harry. “Page three hundred and twelve.”

“I know just who we need to give this to.” Weasley takes the book from Harry’s hands and sits down, flicking through it. “I think we need that meeting sooner rather than later.”

Draco looks at the serious faces around him, and readies himself for another visit to the Shrieking Shack and Hermione Granger.

*

Hermione’s all business and the meeting starts as soon as she arrives, with a crack of magic and a wave of dust which rises from the floor and envelops the small group. Draco coughs and waves the dust away, just in time to catch Weasley approaching Granger with a love-struck look on his face.

“How are you?”

“Busy.” Hermione sweeps her hair from her face and works it into a knot, pushing the dark hood of her cape off her head. “And missing you all.” She gives Weasley a kiss on the cheek, and his hand lingers on her arm while he murmurs something in her ear that makes her flush. Draco shudders at the thought of Weasley’s oafish attempts at romance, and rolls his eyes at Harry with a grimace. Harry responds with a grin and a shake of his head.

“What’s this?” Hermione looks at the large tome on the small table in the centre of the room, her curiosity apparently piqued. “It looks old.”

“It is.” Draco flicks his wand and opens the book easily, casting a quick spell. “Page three hundred and twelve holds a cure for the victims of the attack, so we’re told.”

“One of the third years gave it to us. She thinks it might help.” The dust settles and Weasley frowns. “But I’m not so sure it’s any use at all.”

Hermione kneels by the open book with a frown and runs her finger down the centre. “There’s no page three hundred and twelve in here. It’s been ripped out. Recently, I think.”

The room chills and Weasley shrugs. “That’s what I was going to say. I took the book with me and decided to have a read to see if I could do anything to help. That’s when I noticed the page was missing.”

Draco snorts. “And you think _I’m_ the one with something to hide?”

Weasley ignores Draco and turns to Harry instead. “I had the book with me the whole time, right next to my bed.”

“It doesn’t mean someone couldn’t have taken it.” Hermione gives Weasley a fond look which makes Draco nauseous. “You sleep like the dead.”

“Anyone in Slytherin House could have had access to it.” Ginny looks at the small group gathered until her gaze lands predictably on Draco.

“Not only Slytherins.” Hermione steps in before Draco is forced to defend himself – again. “Anyone with the password to Slytherin could have found it, if they were determined enough. Who knows about the book?”

“Everyone from Dumbledore’s Army – those still left, anyway,” Harry responds.

“You’re quite sure the page was there when you were given the book?” Hermione waves her wand over the book, murmuring in Latin as if looking for traces of Dark magic between the pages. “This could be a trap.”

“I’ve got no idea if it was there or not.” Weasley looks apologetic. “We were given the book by a third year Hufflepuff who fancies Harry. I wasn’t exactly thinking You Know Who was involved.”

“Besides, she wouldn’t have given us a book in front of everyone if the page was already missing.” Draco leans forward and casts a quick spell of his own, assisting Hermione. “It’s clean.”

“Of course you would say that. You could be in cahoots.” Weasley looks suspicious and Draco rolls his eyes.

“Yes, Weasley. With a _Hufflepuff_. The perfect partner in crime.”

Longbottom lets out a snort of laughter and Harry’s broad smile makes Draco’s heart soar. 

“Idiot.” Even Weasley has to grin, and Draco feels strangely warm.

Hermione produces a small bottle from her robes and shows it to the group. “I have the first batch of truth potion to test. It sounds as though the quicker we can test Dumbledore’s Army members the better. There’s too many people we don’t know well enough to be sure we can trust them – we don’t even know if we can trust ourselves.” Hermione shrinks the book and puts it in the pocket of her robes. “I’ll ask Severus about this. It’s possible he’s familiar with the text, or knows where we can get a replacement.” 

Weasley runs his hand over Hermione’s back, and she leans into him. She places the small glass jar on the table, and the gathered group eye it nervously. “Professor Snape has been very helpful already. We’re working on a modified version of the truth potion to try to recover the memories he lost in the battle. I feel like we’re so close to finding an answer.”

Draco eyes Weasley with disdain, already planning to ask exactly where his loyalties lie. Granger or Parkinson. Gryffindor or Slytherin. A giddy, elated feeling overtakes his fear and he resists the urge to smile. Interrogating Weasley is something he’s very much looking forward to.

“You first.” Weasley looks grim and he nods at Draco, who eyes the potion nervously.

“I’m not going first.”

“Why?” Weasley folds his arms and his brow furrows. “Of all of us, it’s most likely to be you. You’re the one with his Mark on your arm, after all.”

Draco glances at Harry, who looks exhausted. He rakes a hand through his hair and rubs his forehead with a wince. “We’ve all got to take it, Malfoy. We might as well start somewhere.”

“With you.” Draco’s throat is dry and he has to force out his words, Harry’s muted response like a punch to his stomach. “If we’ve got to start somewhere, why can’t it be _you_?”

“We don’t need Harry to take it,” Weasley replies. “We need to know where your loyalties lie.”

“I could say the same for you.” A wave of panic fuels Draco’s anger. “Particularly now Parkinson has you wrapped around her little finger. Not to mention other parts of her anatomy.”

“You don’t have a clue.” Weasley clenches his jaw and Hermione tenses beside him. “A vote, then.”

“No, no vote.” Harry glances at Draco and gives him a pleading look. “You’ll do it, won’t you?” He gives Draco a small, encouraging smile. “And know I’m asking because _I trust you_.”

The panic sets in with force, and Draco thinks he might hyperventilate if Harry keeps looking at him with those soulful eyes full of gentle trust and open expectation. He shakes his head, and tries to still the trembling in his hands.

“I can’t take it.”

“I knew it!” Weasley practically punches the air and Draco shakes his head.

“Not for the reason you think. I’m taking another potion. I can’t take something without knowing how the two will interact.”

“Prove it.” Ginny’s eyes narrow, and Draco extracts his carefully brewed potion. He places it down next to the other and shoves his hands back into his pockets.

“There. It’s a sort of Felix Felicis.”

“Because you’ve had so much luck, lately.” Longbottom sighs and picks up the potion, turning it in his hands. “You must be mental to take that stuff for any length of time. It drives you half barmy. How long have you been taking this for?”

“It helps.” Draco looks to Harry for support, wincing when he notices the wide-eyed stare and the flicker of disapproval on Harry’s face. “After my father…”

Hermione’s eyes narrow. “Was it prescribed by anyone? If it wasn’t Madam Pomfrey, I’m not sure we can trust anything from the Hogwarts Infirmary these days. If you need potions Draco, you should ask Severus. He can help.”

“I brewed it myself.” Draco resists the urge to laugh, his shame making his skin burn. The restless, itchy feeling returns and he tries to stop scratching at his forearm, noticing the way Potter stares at his trembling fingers. “I just need a little pick me up from time to time.”

“For how long?” Longbottom repeats, giving the potion a sniff and then passing it to Hermione who pushes it into her robes, no doubt to take back to Severus so everyone can bear witness to Draco’s shame.

“Since I came back.” Draco shrugs, as if it’s no big deal. He doesn’t want to meet the eyes watching him with curiosity and judgment. He doesn’t want to explain that the potion might be driving him half-mad, but that madness is better than sanity in this fucked up world.

“You’ve got more left, I’m betting?” Finally, Harry speaks. He doesn’t sound cross, just worried. Draco isn’t sure what’s worse.

“Some.” He doesn’t want to give away the fact his drawer is full to bursting of different variations of the same potion. He doesn’t want Weasley or Longbottom to laugh about how far Draco Malfoy has fallen. “Enough to help me sleep.”

“If you’re on potions half the time, how on earth can you know what you’re doing?” Weasley points to the potion again. “You’ve got to take it, and I don’t care how many other potions you’re on.”

“Not until the other potion is cleared from his system.” Harry’s voice is firm and he picks up the small bottle. “I’ll take this one. I’ll vouch for him in the meantime.”

“You knew about this then?” Weasley shakes his head at Harry and snorts, muttering a curse under his breath. “You’re too bloody soft for your own good.”

“Harry’s right, Draco can’t possibly take this potion if he’s taking something else.” Hermione pats Weasley on the arm in an effort to placate him. “It might be dangerous.”

“You know what’s dangerous?” Weasley stares at Hermione. “Letting a Death Eater know _every single one_ of our plans, that’s what. Letting a _Malfoy_ get closer to Harry than any of us. Telling him Snape’s alive. Letting him in on where we meet you. That’s what’s bloody dangerous. Even if he’s not on their side now, how strong do you think Malfoy’s going to be if they get wind that he’s on our side? One vigorous tickling charm from that uncle of his, and he’ll be spilling all of our secrets – never mind what could happen if someone actually uses Cruciatus.”

“I wouldn’t.” Draco shakes his head and he avoids looking at Harry. “I wouldn’t say a word.” He can’t very well say these days he’d rather die than turn Harry in, even if it’s the truth.

“Then fucking clean up your act. I’m not going to tell him anything else until he’s taken the potion. He already knows too much.” 

“No more potions, Draco.” Harry’s voice is quiet, but firm and it’s all Draco can do to nod, another wave of panic making him nauseous. His potion has become as important to Draco as water, as vital as breathing. His hands begin to sweat and shake more violently at the thought of being without the potion even for a day. The cool glass which usually calms him is conspicuously absent from his pocket and he gulps in too much air, as he shoves his hands into his robes. Hot tears prick the backs of his eyes and he repeats to himself over and over the things his father always used to say.

_Big boys don’t cry. Big boys don’t cry. Big boys don’t cry._

It makes him want to cry all the more, and in the end it’s only the warm touch of Harry’s hand on his back which finally settles Draco.

“I’ll help. We’ll be okay.” 

It’s not _I_ and it’s not just Draco anymore. It’s _we_ as in Draco and Harry, and even if he’s shaking like a leaf the promise gives Draco enough to hold onto to take another shuddering breath before he nods, stiffly.

“No more potions.”

“Apart from this one, of course.” With a wink, Harry uncorks the bottle and knocks the potion back. He pulls a face, and looks at Hermione. “Well? What happens now?”

“Did you have anything to do with the attacks?” Hermione focuses on Harry, her words clear. Weasley snorts and Longbottom chuckles, while Ginny smiles and scuffs her toe against the floor.

“Nope.” Harry wrinkles his nose. “How long does this stuff last for, anyway?”

“About half an hour. I suggest you stay here until then, just to be safe.” Hermione gathers up her things and Weasley, Longbottom and Ginny start asking Harry questions about the size of his broom which leave them all in fits of giggles, pushing and teasing one another while Hermione watches them fondly with a strange expression on her face.

“You’d never think we were fighting a war,” Draco mutters. 

Hermione smiles and shakes her head. “That’s the best part about moments like this. Forgetting, even if it’s just for a minute.”

“What’s your biggest secret, Harry?” Longbottom’s getting into the swing of interrogating Harry, who groans and holds up his hands.

“You can’t ask me that. I’m going to have to tell you about that dream I had.”

“What dream?” Weasley’s on tenterhooks and Ginny starts laughing again.

“The one about Snape.” Harry’s cheeks heat and he looks perfectly delectable when he blushes.

“I don’t think anybody wants the details of _that_.” Draco looks at Hermione, expecting to see her laughing along with the others. Instead, she’s watching Harry with a strange expression on her face. Her smile is forced, and she doesn’t laugh along with the rest of them.

“Leave him alone, you’re not supposed to take advantage of the potion like that.” Eventually, Hermione’s smile brightens and she gives Weasley a kiss on the cheek, laughing properly when she finds herself dipped and thoroughly kissed. “Ron!”

“Can’t help myself.” Weasley sounds cheerful for once and he claps Draco on the shoulder. “I’ll even be nice to Malfoy today.”

“I’m perfectly fine.” Draco shakes off Weasley’s hand with a sniff of disdain and waves to them as they head towards the entrance to the passageway leading back to Hogwarts. “I’ll stay with Potter.”

“Harry? Do you want Malfoy to stay?”

Harry flushes again, bound to tell the truth. He shrugs and then looks at Draco, his face breaking into a warm smile.

“Yeah. Apparently I do.”

“Well I never.” Longbottom shakes his head, and gives Draco a mock salute. “Right, then. We’ll leave you to it. Don’t ask him about Snape.” Neville shudders, and they make their way out as Hermione Apparates with a pop.

“I would have thought _I_ was your biggest secret.” Draco sits next to Harry on the sofa once they’re alone. “Aren’t I?”

“I’m not sure we need to be a secret anymore.” Harry shrugs and he leans in to kiss Draco, his lips ghosting over his neck. “Do we?”

“I think we should, just for a while.” Draco’s voice has a breathless quality he despises, and he clears his throat so his speech returns to normality once more. “I don’t want Weasley and Longbottom saying I’m using my charms to keep you onside.”

“That’s exactly what you’re doing, isn’t it?” Harry laughs and he kisses Draco fiercely, as if to punctuate the point. “Not that I care.”

“No.” Draco leans in for another kiss, his potions forgotten for the moment. “Neither do I.”

*

Draco’s not sure when he fell asleep, but when he wakes the Shrieking Shack is dark and a gust of wind blows through the broken window. 

“Harry?”

“I’m still here.” Harry looks up from his broken mirror, a queer smile on his face. The shadows cross over his cheekbones and slide over his body. Even the night wants to caress Harry – touching him with its lazy tendrils of darkness and shadows. The moonlight casts the room in an eerie light and glints off Harry’s mirror, until he pockets it and approaches Draco. He reaches out a hand and he tugs Draco to his feet, resting his head in the crook of Draco’s neck.

“How long was I asleep?” Draco panics and he pulls back from Harry. “They’ll miss us at supper. We’ll be in trouble. I can’t have another detention, Harry. Three strikes and you’re…”

“Done for,” Harry murmurs. He slides his hands around Draco’s waist and kisses him briefly. “Don’t worry. Ron’s going to cover for us.”

“You think that prat would do anything to help me?” Draco lets out a hollow laugh. “I don’t think so.”

“Trust me, Malfoy.” Harry brushes Draco’s hair from his forehead, and his smile is so bright it nearly brings Draco to his knees. “Have I ever lied to you before?”

“You don’t do that.” Draco raises his eyes to the ceiling, relaxing in Harry’s arms. “You’re Harry Potter.”

“Yes.” The response is almost sibilant, and seductive. Harry kisses Draco firmly with practiced ease. He’s getting good at this, Draco thinks. Harry unbuttons Draco’s robes and they drop to the floor where they pool with the shadows. Harry takes his time stripping Draco completely, until he’s nothing but bare skin and reflected moonlight – exposed to Harry’s gaze which lingers on every scar and tear on his body.

“They hurt you.” Harry runs his fingers along the lines on Draco’s torso, and then he winces as his fingers move lower to three deep scars. “ _I_ hurt you, too.”

“You didn’t,” Draco whispers. “You couldn’t.” He brings Harry’s hand to his lips and tries to stop careless words from spilling out into the air, because he knows he won’t be able to claw them back.

Draco finds himself moving to the floor to sink onto his robes without question when Harry nudges him down, capturing his lips in a heart-stopping kiss. Harry murmurs some kind of spell and flicks his wand so the floor feels instantly clean and soft. Draco sinks into the pillows with a sigh, and Harry settles over him. Unlike Draco, Harry’s still in his trousers and shirt and the cotton is rough against Draco’s skin.

“I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t come back.” Harry brushes his lips to Draco’s ear, and slides his hand over his cock. His touch is light and teasing and it’s the best thing Draco’s ever felt.

“I hated you, once.” Draco’s words fall from his lips and he wonders if this is some kind of dream. He tugs at Harry’s clothes with fevered need until Harry too is laid bare, his skin pale in the moonlight. “Not anymore.”

“No?” Harry’s lips curve into a smile and he nuzzles his nose into the crook of Draco’s neck. 

“No.”

Draco’s body slides against Harry’s and they kiss until Draco’s dizzy with it.

“Do you want more?” Harry runs his hands over Draco’s body, the delicate touch sending shivers of pleasure down Draco’s spine.

He wants Harry more than he wants air to breathe, but there’s something about the night – something about the watery moonlight and the soft, enticing floor of the Shrieking Shack which doesn’t feel real. 

They’re just playing make believe, he and Harry. They come together in the shadows of hidden places, pretending there’s not a war to win. They dance together without music, pretending to hear the notes above the sound of the walls of Hogwarts crying for help. Potions Harry knows nothing about burn through Draco’s veins and they speak in kisses and touches which nobody else can see.

Draco’s synthetic confidence is suddenly replaced by a wave of sadness so acute it leaves him breathless.

“No, I don’t.” Draco pulls his robes from the floor and begins to dress. “It’s cold, and we have to go back before we’re missed.”

“Did I say something wrong?” Harry props himself onto his elbow and studies Draco with dark, lidded eyes.

“No,” Draco replies. “Nothing at all.”

When Harry is fully dressed, they return the Shack to normal and Draco takes Harry’s hand. He looks at Draco, confused as if he’s not sure what happened.

“Draco?” 

Harry’s hair is all over the place and his eyes have lost the dark look, heavy with desire and glinting in the moonlight. He just looks lost, uncertain and unsteady – as if he thinks he’s made a mess of things.

“Come on, Potter. I’m freezing my backside off.”

Draco gives Harry the brightest smile he can muster, a rush of certainty flooding through his body at Harry’s scruffy, unsure appearance.

He tugs Harry towards the hidden passage and then stops to kiss him, just because he can.


	10. Draco's Detour

_“I am covered in skin, no one gets to come in. Pull me out from inside. I am folded, and unfolded, and unfolding...I am ready...I am...fine…”_

(Counting Crows – Colorblind)

It has been twenty-eight hours and thirty-seven minutes since last Draco had any of the bastardized Felix Felicis he created, and he knows this because he has been awake for every agonizing second of it. Awake and wholly alert for the first time in ages, and he cannot decide which is worse.

There are no books about what to expect as he purges the potion from his system and no guides about the long-term effects. He has to suffer in ignorance, although he supposes it's rather deserved. Fitting, even. He's made an absolutely terrible mistake and may have permanently damaged his body, and as he lies in his bed alternating between sweating profusely with fever and being bodily wracked with tremors, the only thing he can really think about is if Harry will ever forgive him.

He does know that he’s doing the right thing, letting all the poison of the last few months drain out of him. No matter how much it hurts, he's made the right choice. He has no idea what might happen, but at least he can face it straight on...like a Gryffindor. Like Harry would.

He supposes he could ask Severus for advice, but that would mean admitting to his mentor that he used the craft of potions-making for something profoundly stupid. He’s certain Severus already knows, of course; Granger would have taken the potion back to him for study, and honestly, he’s surprised Severus hasn’t tried to contact him already. But perhaps he’s so disappointed in Draco, he isn’t bothering.

Everything hurts. Everything hurts in a way that is different from when it all used to hurt before the potion dulled everything, but in a way that is achingly familiar too. He has the same fears, the same pains, the same hateful thoughts, but now the pain is sharp, acute and near-constant.

He could try to beg for some sleeping draught from Madam Pomfrey again -- enough time has passed that the immediate danger of mixing toxic substances should no longer be an issue -- but perhaps it’s supposed to hurt like this. Perhaps it would be cheating to fall into the blissful ignorance of sleep.

The door opens with a long creak, and Draco holds his breath as two sets of footsteps come towards him: one set confident and unafraid, the other shuffling as if with something to hide. Draco scarcely allows himself to hope. It’s too early in the morning, or too late depending on perspective, for any of the Professors to be bothering with him, but he also hasn’t seen any of his friends or Harry since Draco collapsed in front of the Hospital Wing door, half-delirious with fever.

He can hear them just outside the curtains around his bed, voices low and charged, and hope curls itself further around Draco’s poor, battered heart, insistent and painful.

“If you set foot outside those curtains, you need to be under the cloak,” Weasley hisses.

“I’m not stupid, Ron, no matter what you seem to think lately,” Harry replies.

Draco bristles on Harry’s behalf, and he tries to sit up to open the curtains and glare at Weasley, but a wave of dizziness forces him to remain still and breathe deeply until it passes. The curtains open with an invisible hand, the bed dips with an invisible force, and then Harry’s head pops out from thin air, as he removes the Invisibility Cloak from around his shoulders. “You’re here,” Draco says, voice hoarse with disuse.

“I can’t stay long,” Harry replies quickly. “I just wanted to make sure that you were...Merlin, Draco, you look terrible.”

 

Too tired and weak to argue, Draco just nods. He manages to pull himself up into a slumped sitting position against the pillows and makes a little more room for Harry on the bed. “Is everything okay?” Draco asks.

“Not really, no,” answers Harry. He looks as exhausted as Draco feels, with deep shadows under his eyes and a seeming weight around his shoulders that bows them forward.

Draco wants to stroke his hands along Harry’s arms and relieve some of the burden instead of what he’s doing now: only adding to the myriad problems Harry faces. A wave of self-loathing overcomes him, and Draco closes his eyes against it. “What if I wasn’t supposed to come back?” he whispers.

“What?” Harry’s voice is sharp and forces Draco to open his eyes and look at him again. “What are you talking about?”

“What if I wasn’t supposed to come back?” A wracking shiver causes Draco to grip the blanket more tightly around himself. He’s thought it before, but now that he’s given it voice, shared it with Harry, it feels more real, more true. “Harry, what if I was supposed to have stayed dead and you brought me back and now that’s why everything's so fucked up?”

Harry’s silence answers far more decisively than any words could.

Draco slides back down then, buries himself beneath the covers and closes his eyes, praying for sleep to finally take him away from the pain. After several long minutes, or maybe it’s an hour, Draco has no idea anymore, the bed dips again, and Harry disappears beneath the Cloak to leave.

*

Madam Pomfrey could really use the bed, Draco knows, but he’s not ready yet. The acute symptoms may have mostly ceased (except for the tremors, but Draco thinks that those might mostly be in his head too), but every time he wakes from fitful, nightmare-filled sleep, he can barely lift his head under the weight of his emotional pain.

The hope is the worst. The brief periods of hope that force him to claw his way out of the despair flicker out like flames in the wind and then cast his world into deeper darkness again.

It’s in those crashes that he thinks it would have been better if Harry never brought him back, never forced him to live. He thinks of Father and of Crabbe and wonders if they’re better off too, never having had to see the world now that the Dark Lord rules it. He thinks of all those that have died and wonders why he was saved.

Despair sits heavy on his chest, makes every breath in and out feel like agony. His battered heart continues to beat, and sometimes it makes him feel better, but sometimes it makes him feel worse.

Madam Pomfrey clucks her tongue at him and fusses, but he can see in her eyes just before she looks away how worried she is about him and about everyone. He wonders how he never saw it before; too busy he was, he supposes, with playing the hero like Harry and the rest of the Army. But she’s worried, and he can see it in the way she hovers over the beds full of children -- fuck, they’re children, they’re all just children -- trying her best to help them when nothing and nowhere is safe anymore.

This is when Draco hates himself the most, thinking of everything that’s happening out there when he’s hiding in here. He’s a coward. He’s a coward who couldn’t face life, so he chose to make himself half-delirious with potions in order to just get through something that people have fought for but still lost senselessly, violently and painfully in the blink of an eye. He’s pathetic, and he needs to do something about it.

When Harry comes to him that night, Draco barely waits for him to remove the Cloak before he’s kissing Harry, urgent and needy. Harry’s arms wrap tightly around him, and Draco clings desperately. He drags his mouth away from Harry’s and begins pressing open-mouthed kisses along Harry’s jaw and neck, down, down, further, divesting Harry of his shirt as smoothly as he can and continuing to kiss and suck at the naked skin he reveals.

The bed is too small for what Draco wants, what he _needs_ , but he doesn’t care because he’s going to have it anyway. When Harry lets out a small moan of encouragement, Draco changes their positions so that he’s lying flat with Harry pressed along the length of him. He can feel Harry’s cock responding, and it spurs him on because at the very least, he has this. He has Harry, no matter what happens going forward, no matter what happened in the past, whatever mistakes he’s made. He has Harry.

Harry pulls back, but not far, resting his head on Draco’s stomach and breathing deeply. He’s so tired, poor thing, even though he obviously still wants. Draco cards his hand through Harry’s hair, even as his heart thumps wildly in his chest and his cock throbs with want. He still feels so urgent, but Harry’s gone still, silent, and his breathing has evened out.

“Will you fuck me?” Draco then asks, his voice low and so quiet, he wonders if Harry even hears him.

But after a long, heavy moment, Harry leans up on his elbows again and looks down at Draco. It’s too shadowed to really see the expression on his face, but Draco doesn’t think he’s imagining the hunger in Harry’s voice when he answers. “You really want to?”

Draco nods. “Please.”

“I…” Harry trails off and looks away.

Draco’s heart begins to race with panic this time, as he pushes himself up and rests back against the pillows. “Harry, don’t you want--”

“--I do!” Harry quickly says, “Of course I do, but I just…”

“You just what?”

“I can’t,” Harry says, and he sounds so embarrassed. “I can’t now, not just...not just now. Not like this.”

“Not like what?” Draco asks sharply, to hide the pain of his rejection.

“Not when you’re...you’re sick, Draco. I don’t want to do it like this,” he answers.

Ice seems to flood his veins. Draco curls his hands into fists and brings them down hard on his upper thighs. Harry starts to pull away from him entirely, crawling back out of the cradle of Draco’s legs, and rising up on his knees. “I thought you said _we_ ,” Draco accuses, remembering the night he promised not to take the potions anymore.

“We are, Draco, we are still, I promise, it’s just…” He trails off again, looking awkward and uncertain. “I just can’t, not like this. Not until you’re…”

“I’m never going to be better, if that’s what you fucking think, Potter!” Draco spits. But inside, he just feels weak. Worthless and weak and it’s really no wonder that Harry doesn’t want him anymore.

After a long, pointed silence, Harry says, “I should go.” He sighs and tugs a frustrated hand through his hair. “It’s got really bad out there, you know, and I…”

“Just get out then,” Draco sneers, though he doesn’t manage to dredge up the necessary menace. He’s just so tired. He’s tired, and he worthless if even Harry Potter who supposedly loves him cannot manage to get it up for him anymore. Draco didn’t think it was possible to sink lower, but apparently, there’s still so much further he can fall.

Harry climbs out of bed and begins putting on his clothes, and Draco suddenly, vehemently hates him. He curls in on himself and avoids looking anymore. “I’ll come back and check on you soon, all right?”

Draco doesn’t answer.

*

Harry doesn’t come back to check on him before Draco is deemed by Madam Pomfrey as more than fit to return to his lessons. She obviously cannot see inside his head, though, because even though he’s physically capable of getting up and walking around again, he cannot seem to find a reason to do it. Still, he gathers the few personal items that have made their way to his bedside into his bag, splashes some water onto his face, studiously avoids looking at himself in the mirror, and leaves the Hospital Wing just in time to make it to Transfiguration.

He avoids everyone’s eyes, even though he can hear the whispers. It feels just like it did at the beginning of the year, and, like a terrible reflex, he reaches into his pocket for a vial. But it isn’t there because he and Harry Vanished the lot of it weeks ago. Merlin, it was two weeks ago… Draco’s head pounds, but he forces himself to sit up straight and pay attention to the lesson. He doesn’t need the potion; he used to function perfectly well without it before everything fell apart, and he can function perfectly well without it again if he has to.

Draco does manage to make it through the lesson without completely losing his mind, and he has to admit that the brief moment where Longbottom caught his eye and offered something close to a smile helped a great deal. For right now, he’s all right. He’s going to get through the next breath, the next ten minutes, the next class, the next night. Day by day, he’s going to get better at this. He’s going to do whatever he has to do in order to get better.

Harry finds him not too long after lunch, when Draco has a free period and is sitting by the lake contemplating an attempt to contact Severus. He slips the mirror back into his pocket and turns to Harry, apologies ready on his tongue.

“Here,” Harry says, throwing Draco a bright green apple, which he catches easily, despite his surprise. Harry then nods at him, a smile coming to his lips briefly before it slips away again. “Looks like you’re getting your reflexes back. That’s really good.”

“Yeah,” Draco answers absently, as he turns the apple over in his hands. “About the other night, Harry--”

“--don’t worry about it,” Harry says, shaking his head, as he takes a seat next to Draco. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

And he’s forgiven, just like that. Draco inhales shakily against the overwhelming relief he feels, before taking a bite of the apple. It’s perfectly crisp, the slight tang of it taste sharp and bright in his mouth, and he marvels at the fact that he can actually taste something at all. After he swallows the bite, he hands it back to Harry to share. “Aren’t you worried about someone seeing us like this?” he asks, even though he doesn’t want to lose the moment.

“No, we should be okay for now.” Harry grins at him. “And if anyone questions it, you can shove me in the lake and make like that was your plan all along.”

The joke startles a laugh out of Draco, and it isn’t long before his laughter turns hysterical and tears begin to leak from his eyes. Everything still hurts so much, and he can’t believe that he’s sitting here by the lake, laughing with Harry Potter while people are dying around him. They’re all just moving forward, day by day, waiting to die.

“I haven’t lost you, have I?” Harry asks.

Draco bows his head then, and when he feels Harry's hand slide up his back and rest on the crown, he inhales shakily and exhales on a watery sigh. He hates crying, but especially in front of Harry. “No, you haven’t,” he answers. "I just...I feel so fucking stupid. I really thought the potion would make things better, but I also know that’s stupid. And that's just how I feel now. I feel fucking stupid."

"Well, you did do a really stupid thing," Harry replies, his voice gentle and at odds with his harsh words. "An incredibly fucking stupid thing."

"At the time I didn't know what else to do!" Draco explodes. "Everything was upside down! Father was dead, and Mother was gone, and there you and your stupid friends were, offering me a lifeline like I in any way deserved your help. I did everything I possibly could to make your lives hell for years, and there you were anyway like I was worth saving--" A sob chokes in his throat, cutting off the rest of his tirade.

Harry’s hand tightens around Draco’s head, pressing carefully in a gentle squeeze and then massaging in little circles. Draco feels like he could melt, boneless, right there. “It’s going to be all right soon enough. I just know it, Draco,” Harry says. “We’re going to get through it, all of it. Soon enough, I promise.”

“How do you know?”

Harry sighs. “I just do,” he answers. He turns his head then and presses a kiss to Draco’s temple, and Draco lets himself relax, at least for now. At least for a moment.

*

Draco watches, trying not to be obvious, as Harry and Weasley talk across the room. Weasley looks furious, but then lately he always looks furious, perhaps because it’s been weeks and they don’t seem to be any closer to finding out what curse has afflicted the attacked students or to finding out who has been behind it all along. Or perhaps it’s because of Draco and the amount of time that Harry’s been spending with him. Weasley will never understand how hard it’s been, and how important being with Harry has been to making Draco start to feel whole again. Weasley can’t understand anything.

“Fuck, Harry!” Weasley suddenly exclaims, drawing the attention of all the few gathered D.A. members in the Room. “Then on your fucking head be it!”

“Ron!” Harry cries out, as Weasley pushes past him and storms for the door. Weasley pauses only a moment to glare at Draco and then leaves.

“What the hell was that about?” Ginny asks, coming over to Harry.

“Me, obviously,” Draco interjects, before Harry can say anything. “I don’t think he can make it any clearer that he doesn’t want me here. He doesn’t trust me.”

Ginny turns to Harry, her expression plaintive. “Harry, we can’t keep doing this,” she says.

“I know.” Harry’s decisive, and his gaze never falls away from Ron’s wake. “We’ll figure it out soon enough. I told you all I’d vouch for Draco until we could take the potions, and I meant that. You can trust him.”

“It’s not me you have to convince,” she argues. She gives his upper arm a gentle squeeze before she heads for the door as well, following after her brother. Longbottom goes as well, until Draco is left alone in the Room with Harry again.

“Maybe you should stop sticking up for me,” Draco then says quietly, as he walks over and takes a seat on the couch near Harry. “It seems like all we do when it comes to me is waste time trying to prove that I’m on the level. Shouldn’t you listen to Weasley and cut me loose?”

“No,” Harry replies immediately.

Draco pulls his knees up and wraps his arms around them. “Maybe you should though, really. I’m a liability in the long run, especially if you spending all this time with me means pushing away the people you can really count on.”

“Are you saying I can’t count on you?” Harry plops down on the couch next to Draco and rests his head on the back.

“No, I…” Draco trails off, because perhaps that is what he’s saying. It’s not true; Harry can absolutely count on Draco to be there for whatever he needs, but Draco also knows that it’s probably better if Harry just concentrated on the fight ahead. “I don’t know, Harry. I just think that I’m a distraction.”

A smile ghosts Harry’s lips. “You are a bit, but I don’t mind. We can’t just lose sight of everything else because there’s a war to be won.”

“Somehow I can’t imagine the Dark L--You Know Who,” Draco corrects himself quickly, “letting himself get distracted by the likes of me.”

Harry doesn’t answer, and Draco wants to take it back. But then, after a moment, “I’ve seen what he put you through.”

Draco raises his head sharply, eyes narrowed.

“Not all the time,” Harry hurriedly adds, hands raised almost in surrender. “Not always, just sometimes, when he was particularly angry or happy or something. I saw what he made you do, and I just want you to know that...well, that I’m sorry for that.”

“Wasn’t your fault,” Draco petulantly responds.

“No, but there might have been something I could do to stop it. I could have...I could have done more,” Harry continues. He quietly unwraps a bar of chocolate, breaks off a small piece and pops it into his mouth.

Draco hasn’t had much appetite since the last of the potion ran its course, but he reaches over and takes the chocolate bar to get a piece for himself. “Well, you didn’t,” he says. “No use beating yourself up for it now.”

“I’m not,” Harry quickly replies. “I’m just saying that if I could go back and if I could have done something else to stop it, I would have. Because you’re...well, you’re worth fighting for.”

Draco wants to lash out. He wants to spit that Harry has no fucking idea what he’s talking about, or that he’s only saying that because he’s afraid that Draco’s going to do something to hurt himself. He wants to tell Harry to go fuck himself, but the gratitude and relief he feels fills up his chest until it’s practically bursting out of him. It’s unfair that Harry constantly gives him hope. It’s so fucking unfair that Harry Potter has the singular ability to tear his world out from him under him while simultaneously building it up.

"I don't understand you," he says, shaking his head in disbelief, as he breaks off another piece of chocolate.

"I mean that I wish I could--"

"--no," Draco interrupts, "I know what you're saying. I'm saying I don't understand you. I don't understand how you can keep going on like this. Every time I think I have a handle on you, you say something like...like that."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, in what world am I worth fighting for, Harry?" Draco sighs, throwing out his arms in a useless gesture.

Harry suddenly grasps Draco by the shoulders, startling a gasp out of him. "In _this_ one, Draco!" he says fiercely.

"Ha-harry, I--"

"--no, you shut the fuck up and listen to me!" Harry's grip tightens, almost bruising, and Draco shuts his mouth and meets Harry’s blazing green eyes. "I _refuse_ to listen to this self-loathing shit any longer. You fucking matter, Draco. You fucked up, so what, we all fuck up a little. But nobody died, did they? Nobody died because you failed, right?"

Draco answers, even though he doesn't know if Harry's really asking for one. "R-right. No one died because of me," he answers, thinking that it was a very near thing though.

"Then count it as a bloody win, and move forward!" Harry says. His hands slip down from Draco’s shoulders to grip his upper arms, squeezing. Suddenly, he looks exhausted, all the fight gone out of him. His head tips forward to rest against Draco’s forehead.

"I'm sorry," Draco breathes.

“Don’t be sorry,” Harry murmurs. “Just be ready...be ready to keep going. We need you. I…” He opens his eyes and pulls back, fixing Draco with an intense look. “I need you.”

The words sink through Draco’s skin, plunge straight to his heart, and it surges in his chest. He cannot help the smile that comes to his lips. He doesn’t care if it’s inappropriate or wrong to feel so happy in the midst of all the despair around him and in him. He doesn’t care at all. Nothing matters. Nothing except being there for Harry who needs him.

Harry leans in again, pauses just before his lips brush Draco’s, and says, “We can do this, you know.”

“I know,” Draco replies, before pressing his lips to Harry’s and kissing him deeply.


	11. The Man With Two Faces

_“I still get lost in your eyes, and it seems that I can't live a day without you. Losing my eyes and you chase my thoughts away to a place where I am blinded by the light...Goodbye to everything I thought I knew. You were the one I loved, the one thing that I tried to hold on to…”_

(Michelle Branch - Goodbye to You)

The news comes to Draco at night, carried by a silvery stag which shimmers and shivers in the night air.

“Luna.”

It’s Harry’s voice, and before Draco can ask anything else the stag disappears. Luna’s smiles flash through his mind, and with a sense of rising trepidation he pulls on his robes and makes his way to the common room, where he finds Weasley waiting.

“We’re going to need to huddle up, I’m afraid.” Weasley holds up Potter’s invisibility cloak with a grimace. “I’ve already taken Neville and Ginny – Harry’s waiting for us.”

“The Room of Requirement?” Draco bats Weasely’s arm away. “I’m there often enough at night, Weasley. I don’t need to creep around with you under Potter’s cloak. The school will keep us safe.”

“The school isn’t keeping _anyone_ safe.” Weasley stares at Draco who brushes his robes and makes his way into the corridors.

“Trust me, Weasley. I’ve never been caught before. Someone has to be looking out for me. Besides, I wouldn’t have thought the Carrows would care if you were found loitering in the halls. You’re the new golden boy of Slytherin, after all. Their prize pet.”

“Shut it, Malfoy.” Weasley growls and nudges Draco to move more quickly. “And get a move on.”

“What happened?” Draco waits until they are well clear of the dungeons before speaking again. “Is Lovegood going to be okay?” He wants to ask if she’s alive, but the idea of not seeing Luna anymore hits Draco like a punch in his stomach. He never expected to feel this much for people he could barely tolerate in the days before his father’s death. Now he finds himself gallivanting around the school with Weasleys and trying to bite back tears over Luna Lovegood. 

“They don’t know.” Weasley’s forehead is perspiring a little and he rubs at it as if it pains him, reminding Draco strangely of Harry. 

“Another attack?” His heart in his throat, Draco imagines Luna upside down, her cheeks smeared with blood.

“Worse.” With a grim smile which doesn’t meet his eyes, Weasley continues to pace through the corridors at speed. “The Carrows got to her.” His lip curls into a look of pure, unadulterated hatred. “She was always their favourite. _Bastards_ \- I’m going to…”

“Do nothing. You’re going to do nothing.” Draco’s stomach turns at the thought of Luna being subjected to prolonged bouts of Cruciatus. He thinks of Longbottom’s parents, half-mad in the Janus Thickey ward and Weasley’s use of past tense – as if Luna’s already left them.

“Of course you’d say that – you’d never want to put your neck on the line for someone else.”

“You know nothing about the things I’m prepared to do.” Draco glares at Weasley, his voice cool and sharp-edged. “Lovegood is...” He trails off, not wanting to let Weasley know how much Luna’s cool blonde hair reminds him of his mother. He doesn’t want to get into the way Lovegood sees the torn out heart of him, and still sees something worth saving. “Lovegood’s better than you,” he finishes.

Weasley lets out a _harrumph_ as if he doesn’t quite believe Draco’s capable of helping anyone. “Better than you, too.”

Draco snorts and pushes open the door to the Room of Hidden Things when it appears in front of him.

“Well obviously.”

*

“It happened at nine o’clock this evening.” Ginny’s face is streaked with tears and Longbottom looks green, as if he’s about to lose his supper. “One of the Ravenclaws sent a Patronus to let us know as soon as they could.”

“Where is she now?” Draco’s voice is hoarse and he clears his throat, twisting his hands together to stop them from shaking. “Is she safe?”

“She’s at Grimmauld Place.” Harry’s face is grim, and tired. “We should have insisted she go sooner. We could have stopped this.”

“She didn’t want to go,” Ginny replies. “She wanted to stay with us all, she said it so many times. She wanted to be close to you, Harry. She thought you needed help.”

“He _does_ need help. We all do.” Weasley puts a reassuring hand on Harry’s shoulder. “It’s not something you could have stopped – not this time.”

“What’s the use of these, then?” Harry holds up his mirror, the reflection of the candles catching off the silvery surface and reflecting another pair of green eyes back at Draco. “If we can’t use them to help one another, what’s the bloody point?”

“She wouldn’t have risked us, Harry. Luna wouldn’t have given away our method of communicating to save herself.”

“How bad is it?” Longbottom is unusually subdued, his expression stricken. “Is it like…mum and dad?”

“Not like that. Not quite.” Harry holds Longbottom’s eyes. “But it was bloody close. She’s going to be in recovery for a long time.”

“And then she has to live with the memory of it,” Draco comments. “What do we do now?”

Draco expects Potter to be full of plans. He expects Weasley to suggest ways to cut the Carrows down at the knees. He expects Gryffindor boldness and bravery that he’ll have to temper. _Strategy_ , he’ll have to remind them. Don’t just bluster in and die, nobody wants that.

Instead, the silence stretches between them. 

For the first time since all of this started, Draco considers the possibility that Harry might not have a plan. 

The thought leaves him shaking and for the first time since his recovery he reaches into his robes, finding only empty space where his potion should be.

*

“There’s enough for all of us.” Hermione passes out small bottles to the gathered group, pausing when she hands Draco his own small phial. “This could be quite dangerous if mixed with anything else. Toxic, even.”

“I’m aware of that,” Draco replies, tightly. He holds out his hand and tries to still the tremble in it. “Come on then, let’s get this over with.” He rolls his eyes when Hermione continues to hesitate. “I’m _clean_ , Granger. If I wanted to kill myself I wouldn’t do it here with a roomful of Gryffindors staring at me.”

“If you’re sure?” Still looking doubtful, Hermione gives Draco the bottle. She passes Harry without giving him a bottle, and avoids his eyes. “Harry doesn’t need one, of course. He’s already taken it.”

Draco narrows his eyes and feels the same gnawing unease, remembering Harry’s flushed cheeks and candid responses which gave absolutely nothing away. “You’re sure it works?”

Hermione’s gaze lands on Draco and her brow furrows. She looks briefly at Harry and then nods, meeting Draco’s eyes with a searching look. “It works. Unless someone is particularly resistant to this kind of magic. Some people are, you know.”

“Like Imperius,” Weasley confirms. 

“As we’re supposed to be testing to see if anyone’s under the Imperius curse, I don’t think we have to worry about people who can resist it.” Longbottom nods at Harry and shrugs. “Like Harry.”

Draco raises his eyebrow and looks at Harry, who flushes. “Full of surprises, aren’t you, Potter? That’s two out of three Unforgivables that can’t touch you.”

“That’s not exactly true,” Harry mutters. He shudders and passes his hand over his cheek, his eyes closing. “Cruciatus still hits the spot.”

“I’ll go first.” Hermione drains the liquid in one, and folds her hands in her lap. “Ask me anything.”

Weasley gives her a wink. “Do you love me?”

“Yes.” Hermione’s cheeks flush and she glares at Weasley. “You’re not supposed to ask me that. You’re not supposed to ask anything like that.”

“I need to check it’s working.” Weasley taps his finger to his lip and then laughs softly. “I’ve got it. Have you ever wanted to snog Harry?”

“Yes.” The flush in Hermione’s cheeks deepens and her voice lowers. “Don’t, Ron. Please.”

“Why? It’s not like you’ve ever done anything about it, is it?” Weasley’s smile falters as Harry groans and he drops his head into his hands.

Draco’s heart hammers in his chest and his hands go clammy when he takes in the pause, and the soft whisper of the word _yes_.

Weasley’s face is thunderous, his cheeks red and his lips pursed in a thin line. He clenches and unclenches his fists looking as if he wants to hit something – anything. He stands with such force his chair clatters to the floor with force and he approaches Harry with a growl. 

“Everything. I want to know _everything_.” He swipes his hand through the air when Hermione starts to placate him and shakes his head. “I’m not asking you. I’m asking _him_. My best mate.”

Harry gets to his feet and he meets Weasley’s gaze head on. Despite feeling like his heart has been splinched all over again, Draco can’t help but admire Potter’s courage. His stupid, brave, fucked-up Gryffindor courage.

“When you left. When we were camping. It wasn’t anything, it…” Harry pauses and he looks at Hermione, his expression sombre. “It wasn’t anything for either of us, nothing more than friendship and comfort. We knew it was a mistake. We knew almost as soon as it happened.”

“As soon as _what_ happened?” Ginny looks at Hermione, her face set in a frown. “Did you and Harry…?” She trails off like she can’t say it, and a wave of nausea overwhelms Draco when Hermione nods her confirmation.

“Yes. We did.”

“Don’t you look at her!” Draco’s pulled back to the exchange between Weasley and Harry. Weasley grips Harry’s tie and shoves him, hard. “Don’t you _look_. Fuck. Fuck you, Harry.”

“You left,” Harry says, tiredly. “We were alone, we were scared and we didn’t know if you were ever coming back. It was a mistake, and if I could take it back I would. I’m sorry. I’m…fuck, Ron. I’m so bloody sorry. I didn’t even…I didn’t even know…”

“You didn’t even know what, Harry?” Hermione’s voice cuts through the anger, sharp and commanding. “Please, Ron. Just for a moment.”

Weasley gives Harry one final shove, before sitting. He undoes his tie as if it’s choking him, and unbuttons the top button on his shirt. He keeps looking between Hermione and Harry, his expression lost and confused. If Draco didn’t dislike Weasley so much he’d almost feel sorry for him.

“It didn’t feel real. Did it?” Harry’s voice is barely a whisper, and he rubs his forehead again. 

“It felt real to me,” Hermione says quickly.

Harry sways on his feet and Draco snaps into action. He’s by Harry’s side in a moment, arm around him and a look that he hopes in no uncertain terms tells Granger that Harry really doesn’t want her anymore. He really, really doesn’t. Does he?

“Oh, you’re fucking kidding.” Weasley lets out a bark of humourless laughter. “ _Malfoy_ , Harry? This is fucking priceless. How many of us haven’t you shagged? Some bloody hero you are. Some bloody hero.”

“Wait, Ron. _Wait_.” Hermione moves to Harry until she’s close enough that Draco can smell the soap on her skin, and the light scent of perfume. He keeps close to Harry, because even when he’s flawed Harry’s the most vital, important person Draco’s ever known. 

“Why should I?” Weasley stays sitting nevertheless, glaring at Hermione in challenge.

“Remember the potion. The one I’ve just taken, and the one Harry took weeks before.” Hermione is all business again, although Draco notices the slight tremor in her voice when she meets Weasley’s gaze head on. “Neville asked what’s Harry’s biggest secret was.”

Draco shivers as the room stills, and Weasley’s eyebrows knit together. “Snape. He said it was Snape. But there’s this – there’s _you_ and then there’s Malfoy. What’s going on, Hermione?”

“Don’t be angry yet, just…” Hermione’s voice catches in her throat, and she turns back to Harry. All of her attention is focused on him, and Draco clutches Harry’s thin hand in his own. He squeezes tightly, not caring now that everybody can see his heart. He’s damned if he’s hiding from anyone anymore. Harry is _his_ and he’s going to make sure everyone knows it.

“I’d like to know what’s going on too.” Harry squeezes Draco’s hand back and his expression clouds as he studies Hermione. “You’re worrying me.”

“The potion didn’t work on you, Harry. I knew it as soon as you said your biggest secret was a silly dream.” Hermione doesn’t sound angry, or beguiling. She sounds worried, and her face is paler than usual. She touches Harry’s arm briefly. “Severus has recovered his memory.”

“And?” Harry’s lips stretch into a too-thin smile. His skin is almost translucent and his hip bone presses against Draco. He wonders why he never noticed how thin Harry was, as if he was being eaten from the inside out.

“And I think I know where the final Horcrux is.” Hermione’s fingers tremble against Harry’s scar and she chokes back a sob. “Oh, Harry.”

“Don’t be soft.” Weasley’s voice has lost its anger, and now he just looks worried. His cheeks are no longer pink with rage. He just looks pale and too young to be fighting a war.

“What’s she talking about. Harry?” Draco tries to recall where he’s heard that word before. _Horcrux_. It’s something Dark – something in one of his father’s old texts. Something about souls. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing, sometimes.” Harry’s voice is unsteady and too high. He leans against Draco, and Hermione and Ron help to usher him to a seat. “I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t do those things.”

“Of course you wouldn’t, Harry.” Hermione and Weasley exchange looks and then Hermione continues. “But he would, if he could. He would do it through you if such a thing was possible, because you'd give him the best alibi of all.”

Draco’s mind swims, his heart beating too rapidly to be healthy. He wonders if this is what it feels like to have your heart broken. It’s searing pain, bile rising in his throat and a faltering attempt to hold onto to something real. He clutches onto Harry and tries to speak. He wants to tell Harry to be the hero again. He wants them all to start laughing, and making a joke out of these foolish suggestions. He wants Harry to kiss him and say _only kidding, Malfoy_ so they can go and fuck and love and forget about the world outside.

Instead, all he says is: “Was I real?”

Harry smiles, a small, broken smile.

“Sometimes.”

And for the second time in his life, Draco’s heart rips in two.

*

They take the remaining potions all together, a rite of passage of sorts. They already have the answer to their most important question, but it doesn’t seem fair for Granger and Potter to be the only ones forced to tell the truth.

“How long?” Weasley seems to have taken on the role of self-appointed general now Potter’s curled his feet beneath him on the sofa next to Draco, his face ashen. “How long have you been…together?” 

“Since the night on the Tower,” Draco replies, at the same time Harry says, “Since the night in the Room of Requirement.”

The realisation hits them both at once, and Harry rubs his hand over his forehead again. Draco tries to put distance between them, but he can’t because this Harry – the one rubbing his scar and sitting on a lumpy sofa looking as though the bottom is falling out of his world – this Harry remembers kissing Draco. This Harry remembers those clumsy, urgent, heart-stopping kisses and that means some of it was true. 

“Michael Corner.” Longbottom looks at Ginny, his voice barely a whisper. It’s not a question but whether it’s the potion or the oppressive tension in the air, she answers anyway.

“Once. Before he was attacked. It was stupid, I shouldn’t have-”

“Doesn’t matter.” Longbottom exhales and reaches for her hand. “I just wanted to know. I think part of me already did.”

“You know I…” Ginny gives Longbottom a charged look and he responds with a slow smile and a sigh.

“Yeah, I know. Me too, really. I mean, part of me always has.”

“I don’t want anyone to die.” Ginny shifts closer to Longbottom and he looks glum, shaking his head.

“None of us want anyone to die. Too many people have been killed or injured – far too many.”

“Where do your loyalties lie?” Draco can’t resist focusing on Weasley. He needs to stop his head spinning, and he can’t breathe properly when he thinks Harry might die. He wants to finally ventilate his suspicions, to see if his instincts about Weasley’s newfound power were right.

“With Harry and Hermione.” Weasley looks like a broken man, but his tone still rings with truth. “With my family. They _are_ my family, in a way.” He adjusts his tie and pulls a face at Draco. “Does that answer your question, Malfoy?”

Disgruntled, Draco sits back. He had been so sure about Weasley – so convinced of his shifting in focus. He narrows his eyes. “But you thought about it, didn’t you? You liked being powerful? You loved being the big man.”

“Yeah, for a while.” The tips of Weasley’s ears turn pink and he looks down so he doesn’t have to meet anyone’s eyes. “It was nice being the Quidditch Captain, the one everyone listened to…”

“It was nice not being in Potter’s shadow, I’ll bet.” Draco snorts and Weasley breathes out a _yes_ as if he doesn’t want to let it go – doesn’t want the truth to escape into the still room.

“Don’t. It doesn’t matter, does it? Who wouldn’t want to be liked, to be good at stuff? I don’t care. I get it.” Harry turns on Draco his expression fierce. Gone is the seductive, sibilant phrasing and the gentle _Draco_ of so many nights before. Instead Harry just looks cross and confused, his face too thin and sharp with cheekbones Draco doesn’t remember Harry getting. “I know I’d rather not cast any kind of _shadow_. Just…stop it, yeah?”

“Harry’s right.” Hermione gives Draco a look and he resists the desire to flinch underneath it, like a scolded child. “We have the only answer we need. This isn’t helping. Harry, we need you to tell us everything because we don’t have much time.”

“Everything I can remember.” Harry studies Hermione. “But I want you to tell me something, first. I want you to tell me why he – why _I_ \- didn’t just kill them.”

“Because to kill someone, you have to mean it.” Hermione shakes her head at Harry. “You know that.”

“Did I mean to do those other things?” Harry looks at his hands, turning them this way and that as if he can see blood on them even now.

“Of course you didn’t. You didn’t need to.”

“You-Know-Who couldn’t cast _Avada Kedavra_ because you wouldn’t let him. That was one line he couldn’t cross.” Longbottom speaks in a measured tone, presumably trying to be reassuring.

Draco resists the urge to throttle them all for sitting around and consoling Harry like he’s some kind of delicate child. 

“Idiots!” He spits out the word and gives Longbottom what he hopes is a contemptuous look. “You’re treating Potter like some kind of invalid. He’s _not_. He’s the only one here who has any hope of winning this bloody war, and he can only do it thinking like Harry Potter. We need to know how to stop it, and quickly. Break the connection between them, before whatever this Horcrux is eats Potter from the inside.”

“It’s part of his soul.” Harry looks at Draco, his eyes clear and so green Draco wants to lose himself in them all over again. “That’s what I’ve got inside me. Part of Vold…You-Know-Who’s _soul_. Inside my head, just here.” Harry brushes his fingers against his scar and then gives Draco a brittle smile. “He seduced you too, Malfoy. How does that feel? You still think I should be allowed to live? If you kill me, we’ll be rid of him forever.”

“You’re a fucking idiot.” Draco glares at Harry and resists the urge to hit him, hard. “You’re always such a martyr – you Gryffindors, charging in and getting yourselves killed for the greater good. There _is_ no greater good without you, don’t you see?”

“Then _what_?”

“You have to find a pensieve.” Hermione hands Harry a phial with silvery wisps of memories swirling and beating against the glass. “Severus said it was important – that they would help you understand.”

“It’s too bloody dangerous to try to get into Carrow’s office.” Weasley looks uncertain and Hermione gives him a fierce look, her eyes flashing.

“Then _help him_. You’re a Slytherin Prefect, aren’t you? You’re the one they think has potential. Get him there, cause a distraction, use that power of yours to make sure he’s safe and keep yourself safe in the process, because if you get yourself killed Ronald Weasley, I’ll-”

“I’ve got it, thanks.” Despite the tension between them, Weasley’s lips twitch into a small smile and he shakes his head. “Get Harry a pensieve, don’t get him killed, don’t get myself killed. Easy enough.”

“In the meantime we have to make sure You-Know-Who can’t hurt anyone else,” Longbottom notes.

“You mean make sure _I_ can’t hurt anyone else.” Harry lets out a low growl. “There’s so much time I can’t remember – so many things which seem like bad dreams. I don’t know how to keep him out anymore. I’m a danger to everyone.”

“Professor Snape wants Draco to help with that.” 

“Me?” Surprised to hear his name, Draco raises an eyebrow at Hermione. “I suppose you want me to mop Potter’s tender brow because I’m dispensable, is that it? Because the Dark Lord’s apparently quite happy to spend time with _me_. If you think I’ll be able to stop him, you’re even more stupid than I thought. Frankly, I gave Severus more credit than that.”

“He mentioned you’re a Legilimens.” Hermione looks curious. “It’s really quite impressive, Draco. It’s a real skill. Severus said you could help Harry with his Occlumency. I don’t think he’s terribly good at it.”

“I’m sure Snape put it a bit more forcefully than that.” Harry snorts, but gives Draco a look. “I’m pretty crap. Couldn’t ever really get the hang of it.”

“Of course you couldn’t.” Draco turns his eyes heavenward. “You have absolutely no discipline.”

“Now you sound like Snape,” Harry mutters.

“Thank you.” Draco gives Potter a smirk, a sense of purpose washing over him and making him feel distinctly _alive_. “We’ll meet at the Room of Hidden Things tonight. Ten o’clock.”

“How will you know you’re…safe?”

“I’m always safe with Potter.” Draco ignores the raised eyebrows and slides his wand between his fingers, the familiar thrum of magic - _his_ magic – running through his veins. It’s been so long since he’s actually done anything useful since his brewing career was so rudely interrupted, he’s itching to do some real magic again. “I’ll know if it’s him or not.”

“You didn’t before.” A cloud passes across Harry’s face, and he studies Draco. “Did you?”

“Of course not,” Draco scoffs. He keeps his voice light, and airy. So many of those moments – the ones where Harry told Draco he was perfect – were nothing. He can’t imagine being whole again without Harry and his heart beats and flutters in his chest but he swallows it back because of all the reasons he could be here in the Shrieking Shack with a group of Gryffindors he never particularly liked, the only one he can think of is to keep Harry alive. The part of him that wanted to believe Harry thought all of those things about Draco comes to the surface, and energises him. Heat flushes his cheeks and Draco can almost taste the magic pumping through his body. 

Now nobody’s looking at Draco as if he’s responsible for everything crumbling around them, he has a renewed sense of purpose and he’s going to make certain everybody knows what he’s capable of doing.

*

They find the incriminating evidence in Harry’s rooms, balled up and crumpled. Page three hundred and twelve.

Harry’s face pales, and he hands it to Draco and looks away unable to meet his eyes.

“Get it to Hermione, will you? I…can’t be trusted.”

“I’ll see she gets it.” Weasley pockets the piece of paper after skimming it quickly, his face etched with relief. “There’s a cure for it, by the looks of things. There’s some pretty tricky brewing required, but with Snape on hand I don’t think that’s going to matter much.”

Draco knows the guilt is killing Harry. He can see it etched on his face, and in the dark circles under his eyes.

“Are you sleeping?” Ginny clearly sees it too, and she rests her hand on Harry’s arm. She swallows and she speaks softly so Draco has to strain to hear. “I know what it’s like. I’ve been there too, Harry. It’s not your fault. No one blames you, just as you never blamed me.”

Harry nods, mutely. His throat works and he can’t seem to look at anyone. “They were my friends.”

“They still are,” Weasley says, firmly. 

Draco points to the door, trying not to snap at Harry. They need Harry Potter to win this war, not a broken shell of a boy who lies awake thinking about the mistakes he’s made. If they wanted _that_ Draco could have stepped in a long time ago and put them all out of their misery.

“We have to go. The sooner you learn Occlumency the sooner things will get back to normal.”

“What’s normal, these days?” Harry pulls a face, but follows Draco anyway. He waves goodbye to Weasley and Ginny, and moves swiftly through the halls as if they can’t get to their sanctuary of the Room of Hidden Things quickly enough. 

Draco follows Harry into the room, and looks around at the dark armchair and the fire crackling in the corner. It looks perfectly pristine. It looks like his father’s study, furnished expensively with rich mahogany and bottle-green leather.

“You’ve got something to teach me?” Harry’s voice is light and teasing, and when he turns he bestows Draco with one of the disarming smiles that makes Draco’s heart burn. “You work too hard, Draco.” Harry brushes his fingers over Draco’s arm, the touch burning him through the thin cotton. “Let’s take a break.”

“We haven’t even started, yet.” Harry talks with sibilant, seductive words and Draco’s taken back to the watery moonlight and the slide of their bodies together in the Shrieking Shack. Mustering every last bit of strength, he pulls away from Harry and stalks away to put some distance between them. He grits his teeth and with a flourish, he pulls his wand and casts with a snarl. “ _Legilimens_.”

The room shifts, and the leather is replaced with dog-eared books and lumpy sofas with hideous floral patterns.

Draco breathes a sigh of relief and continues to cast as Harry pushes back against him, his hand hovering over his scar.

*

They don’t have much time, and Harry wasn’t lying when he said he was crap at Occlumency.

Being with Harry and not being _with_ him takes all of Draco’s control. He’s so close, smelling of soap and freshly cut grass. Harry’s forehead perspires with effort and he tries so fucking hard it breaks Draco’s heart. He wonders if he’ll ever feel whole again, and if his heart will ever stop hurting when he looks at Harry.

The Room of Hidden Things shifts in shape and size, as if it doesn’t know where to settle. Draco avoids the dark leather armchairs and makes a beeline for the squishy sofas which he knows are the ones that belong to Harry - _his_ Harry.

They practice every night for a week until the early hours of the morning. It takes every ounce of Draco’s strength not to rifle through Harry’s mind when he gains access. He doesn’t want to take the wrong turn and brush up against the darkest part of Harry’s thoughts. He doesn’t want to learn how Harry feels about their moments together – the real ones – from lazily violating Harry’s mind. 

It’s getting harder to push through Harry’s defences, and Draco twists his wand with a cry of triumph. “Nearly there…just one…more…” 

“No!” Potter snarls out the word, and Draco can feel him – finally – pushing against Draco’s intrusions into his mind. 

“That’s it. You’ve got it.” Draco can’t help laughing, because his own elation is reflected in Harry’s face. Before he knows it, they’re hugging like they’ll never stop and laughing like a pair of Hufflepuffs.

“I can do it.” Harry pulls back, and he’s looking at Draco with a wide-eyed gaze that’s full of blissful promise. His eyes shine and his cheeks are flushed pink. His lips are plump and full and his face has lost that ashen, haunted look. He looks _alive_.

Draco’s all too aware of how close they are. Harry’s heart pounds against his own, and their bodies are warm against one another. 

“Of course you can, Potter.” Draco dismisses Harry with a quick _Potter_ but still he doesn’t leave his arms, far too happy with their current position.

There’s so much Draco wants to say to Harry, but he can’t seem to find the words. For one beautiful moment Harry looks as if he might just be about to tell Draco everything he’s wanted to hear.

“Malfoy,” Harry says. His eyes are so bright, his smile so wide that it takes Draco’s breath away. “Malfoy,” he repeats. His eyes cloud and his face crumples in agony. “Fuck, Malfoy…I….”

Harry’s cry tears through his body until Draco feels his agony burning against his skin. As if he’s been hit by a bolt of Cruciatus, Harry stumbles closer to Draco with bright pink spots flaring in his cheeks. His eyes fill with unshed tears and he looks as though he wants to say Draco’s name before another bolt of pain hits him and his mouth opens in distress.

Draco holds Harry upright, and keeps him steady. He’s burning up, his forehead hot to the touch. Draco murmurs to Harry, trying to bring him back again. He won’t allow Harry to smile at him like he’s everything and then die in his arms. He just _won’t_. “What can I do? Tell me, I’ll do anything.” The words fall from his lips, silly, useless things. He’s impotent. He’s no match for any Dark wizard and he won’t be able to save Harry when the time comes, he knows it with absolute clarity. His anger and frustration overwhelms him until he’s shouting like a madman, shaking Harry as he jerks with pain. “Don’t you fucking dare, Potter! I mean it.”

The door bursts open and Hermione, Ginny, Longbottom and Weasley are rushing towards Harry, practically pushing Draco out of the way. “The memories, Harry. You have to see the memories. Quickly, before he-”

“You shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe.” Finally, Harry speaks with a rough-edged, dark cadence to his voice. He tries to right himself, before buckling over again with a hiss.

“Where is these days?” Hermione forces a laugh and exchanges a glance with Draco. “Will you help, Draco?”

“Anything.” Draco clutches his wand and nods, unable to tear his eyes from Harry’s bent body.

“Go with Neville. Help him kill the snake.”

The small bottle of memories in Hermione’s hand glints in the candlelight and Draco wants to protest. He wants to stay by Harry’s side, until the very end. Wherever or whatever that might be.

“Please, Malfoy.” Weasley gives Draco’s shoulder a squeeze, his voice gruff.

“I said anything.” Draco has questions but no time to ask any of them, because Harry straightens and another sharp cry heaves from his chest and out of his lungs.

When Harry catches his breath, he clutches his hand to his scar and looks at the group with wild, urgent eyes. “He’s coming.” Harry meets Draco’s eyes. His cheeks are streaked with tears and his gaze is no longer bright and urgent. Everything about Harry’s expression says goodbye.

“I’m not useful to him anymore. He’s angry. He wants…” Harry trails off, but Draco knows how that sentence ends, because the Dark Lord is coming to Hogwarts.

_I’m not useful to him anymore. He’s angry. He wants me dead._


	12. The Forest Again

_“It was a Monday, when my lover told me, "Never pay the reaper with love only." What could I say to you, except, "l love you." And "I'd give my life for yours." I know we are... we are the lucky ones…”_

(Bif Naked – Lucky)

They run through the halls together, dodging curses, with Longbottom carrying the mythical Sword of Gryffindor. It feels almost mad; as if what they’re doing belongs to another life, another person. In a hundred years, Draco never would have thought he’d be fighting side by side with Neville Longbottom against Lord Voldemort, but here he is, determined to do whatever he can to help win the war once and for all.

“ _Sectumsempra_!” Draco shouts, pointing his wand with deadly accuracy at a Death Eater that hurtles out into the hallway after an Order of the Phoenix member Draco doesn’t recognise.

“Jesus, Malfoy!” Longbottom yells, but it shouldn’t matter because it's war.

"Him or us, Longbottom," Draco says, too quiet for Longbottom to hear, and dashes off another curse to clear their way to the Great Hall. He doesn't actually know if that's where they will find Nagini, but something in his gut says the murderous, carnivorous snake will be there amongst the carnage.

When they burst through the doors, it takes Draco too long to parse through the groups of dueling DA members and Death Eaters. There are so many bodies, so much smoke and jets of light from nasty curses, it's almost impossible to make anything out. But then, just there…

A prickle of unease starts at the back of Draco’s neck and travels the length of his spine. Goosepimples pop up fresh all over his skin. “It’s here,” Draco whispers. Longbottom stills beside him, tense but ready.

Nagini slithers through the fighting groups, as if it pays no mind. It must be on some kind of mission, or perhaps it’s just waiting for people to fall so that it can devour the bodies. Draco wonders how they’re going to draw it out, when Longbottom suddenly lets out a fierce cry and rushes forward towards it.

“No!” Draco shouts, but the damage is done. The huge snake flicks its giant head their way, hisses and shoots forward on a tear towards them both. “Longbottom, stop! I’ll lead it this way, you fall back!” Draco turns quickly, not bothering to see if Longbottom followed instructions, and runs for the exit. They need to draw it out away from everyone else.

He can feel the snake, hot on his heels just behind him. It hisses and flicks its tongue at him, and Draco focuses on the pounding of his feet against the floor, carrying him forward instead of the intense fear he can feel pressing on the edges of his mind. He's seen this snake do unspeakable things, and he knows what it's capable of. Just a bit further...just outside the doors and down the stairs, they can do this. They have to do this.

“Draco!” Longbottom shouts.

Draco dodges the snap of Nagini’s jaws, but barely, twisting himself away and jumping down the last few stairs. He lands hard on his feet and drops immediately to his knees from the momentum. He rolls quickly and see Nagini rear back, ready to spring forward and finish him off. Draco lets out a whimper and closes his eyes for a second before opening them back up again. He’s not going to die a coward -- not this time.

Nagini leaps from the staircase just as Longbottom swings the sword down and slices through its scales. It lands with a heavy crash and shrieks in pain, but Longbottom runs forward and makes quick work of finishing it off. He severs the head from the body, and together, they watch it writhe for a moment and then lay still.

“Is that it?” Draco asks.

Longbottom looks at him, and a hysterical laugh bubbles up and escapes before he can stop it. “Yeah, Malfoy, I think it is!” He looks stricken a moment later, but then determined once again.

Draco gets to his feet just as Longbottom turns to head back up the stairs. “Longbottom, wait--”

“--I’m going back in there, Draco. I have to,” he says. “I can’t leave them like this.” Longbottom pauses a moment though and extends his hand. Draco takes it and grasps firmly in a tight handshake. “Be careful,” Longbottom adds, before he lets go and races back into the fray.

Draco watches him go and then turns and runs the other way. He doesn’t know where he’s going, doesn’t know what he’s meant to be doing, except getting back to Harry. The last time this happened, he ended up alone, facing off against a Death Eater who was going to kill him regardless of the Mark on his arm. This time, he has no intention of going down alone.

He dashes off curses and jinxes as he runs, helping as best he can, as he forces his way through the battle to get back to the courtyard where they were all supposed to meet. If Harry needs him, though Draco honestly doesn’t know what Harry needs or if Harry even wants him anymore, he’ll be there.

A figure appears at the end of the hall clad all in black, and Draco raises his wand to cast another vicious _Sectumsempra_ , but then when he realises, his wand nearly drops from his hand entirely.

“Draco!” Severus’s voice is hoarse, and he’s moving much more slowly than Draco remembers, but it’s him, and he’s alive, and it takes everything Draco has not to break down right there.

Draco crosses the hallway with record speed and comes to a stop just before Severus. “You...you’re--” he cuts off, when he sees the look in Severus’s eyes. Disappointment, yes, which Draco expected, but also something else, something far more painful and raw than paternal disappointment. “I’m so sorry,” Draco starts again, dropping his gaze.

Severus puts a finger to Draco’s chin and tilts his head back up again. “Draco,” he says again, more a breath than an actual word.

“I should have tried to-- I mean, I was just so-- I didn’t know what to--”

“--stop this,” Severus says. He draws Draco in, and while Severus has never been the sort to offer physical comfort, Draco takes this for what it must be: forgiveness. He allows himself to melt into the embrace just for a moment, just for a second before they have to keep moving. There’s still so much fight left to be won. “It won’t be long now, you know.”

“I know,” Draco whispers.

As if he knows too, and it’s more than possible that he _does_ , the Dark Lord’s voice suddenly fills the air. “ _Come to me, Potter. It’s time to put an end to all this._ ”

It feels horrifyingly familiar, and Draco is filled with a sudden sense of inevitability. Draco pulls back and looks up at Severus, who nods. Draco takes off at a run again.

*

The courtyard is nearly deserted but for Hermione, Weasley and Harry standing together on the castle steps. Draco starts toward them, but a sudden pang of unease holds him back. He doesn’t really belong with them, does he? Not at a moment like this.

“Do you think it’s going to hurt?” Harry asks.

“I don’t know,” Hermione answers.

Draco’s heart sinks, but he ignores the despair and moves closer.

“Harry, I…” Weasley begins, but words seem to fail him. He drops his head and unconsciously perhaps, his hand seeks out Hermione’s. She leans against him and after a moment, he drops her hand to wrap his arm around her instead. “I’m sorry,” he says to her.

“So am I,” she responds and leans her face up.

He cradles her face in his free hand and says, quietly enough that Draco has to strain to hear, “What do you have to be sorry for?” Weasley kisses her softly, then more deeply, and Draco watches Harry, whose unreadable expression melts into one of relief and even joy.

Draco suddenly feels like this isn't something he's supposed to see, but he can't look away either. As Weasley and Hermione forgive each other their sins, Harry stands just off to the side, watching and happy for the moment, but ultimately on his own.

But then, Hermione reaches for Harry, gathers him into a tight embrace, and Weasley wraps his arms around both of them, resting his chin atop Harry's head. They quiver slightly, but Draco cannot hear any sobbing. He supposes they don't have the energy or the inclination for hysterics. He does; he wants to scream and rage and weep violently, but it wouldn't do much good, so he manages to hold on in silence. His eyes sting with unshed tears, but he refuses to make a scene. He can be as strong as they are. He can hold on to the hope in his battered heart and let it buoy him up.

He waits until they start to break apart again before stepping forward and making his presence known. “It won’t be long now,” he says, echoing Severus.

“Oh, Draco, you’re okay,” Hermione says, stepping forward from the group to look him over. Her hands flutter and fuss about him, taking in the tears in his robes and the burns and curse-marks his adrenaline hadn’t allowed him to notice, and he’s amazed once again by the depth of her goodness. “You’re okay.”

“And Neville?” Weasley asks, “Did he do it?”

“He did,” Draco replies, nodding his head. “It’s done.”

“Nearly done,” Harry says, and his gaze is fixed on the forest.

Draco’s struck once again by how unfair it all is that in the end it's down to the Dark Lord and Harry. That in the end, Harry must face the Dark Lord and die.

Harry turns and meets his eyes finally, and Draco feels a thousand words bubble up inside him, but cannot find the courage to say them, even though he might not have another chance. Other people begin to arrive, Longbottom, Ginny, Weasleys and a space where Lovegood, Corner and Finnigan should be. Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws and Slytherins, slowly but surely, they are all making their way to this place. This place where it’s going to end.

Draco opens his mouth to speak, but Harry just steps forward and places his hand on Draco’s shoulder. He squeezes gently, and there’s something in his eyes, something that Draco can’t quite place except to say that it still gives him hope. He can feel his resolve crumbling, and he wants nothing more than to throw himself into Harry’s arms and kiss him until there’s no breath left in his body. He doesn’t care that he said they needed to focus on the battle, on the war, on all the million things besides their relationship. Draco wants to enfold himself in Harry’s embrace and let him know that no matter what happens, no matter what might have been before, what obstacles they faced and what was or wasn’t real, Draco is Harry’s and Harry’s alone.

But instead, Harry turns away, raises himself to his height and starts the walk toward the forest alone.

Draco drops to his knees and covers his face with his hands. He doesn’t want to watch this anymore.

"What do we do now?" someone asks, after a long moment.

Hermione replies, "We wait.”

A hand on his shoulder makes Draco look up. Longbottom stands at his side, shoulders back and chin held high. "It's going to be okay. It's Harry," he declares. Ginny joins him too, so close that her legs press against Draco’s back. It’s more comforting than he can believe, and he turns to look out over the grounds again, watching as Harry slowly disappears into the forest.

"Harry," Weasley and Hermione echo together.

More and more people continue to trickle in until the steps are filled with friends and foes alike, all waiting together for the end.

*

He looks so small, held there in Hagrid’s massive arms. His body is limp, pale and battered from whatever duel took place there in the woods. He doesn't look like Harry at all, but rather a broken doll...broken hopes.

The Dark Lord laughs as he takes in the scene before him, and those Death Eaters that had not been with him in the forest detach themselves from the ranks on the steps and rush to his side.

Draco cannot take his eyes from Harry’s body. Something isn't right; something tugs at him that this is wrong, that this is not how all of this was supposed to end. Something more dangerous than hope, more heartening than determination, fills Draco up inside. Harry still needs him, he knows this, as he drags his eyes away from the half-giant to take in the rest of the Dark Lord’s gathered forces.

But then he sees her, his mother, standing off to the Dark Lord’s right side, and his heart stops.

Her head is held high, but she looks so thin, so beaten-down by all of what she must have seen throughout the year. Draco thinks of all the times he tried to write, all the times he managed to get a letter off to her, only to receive no response. He thinks of all the ways he disappointed her, and all the ways she disappointed him in return. But he finds that none of it matters, and he wants nothing more than to run forward into her arms and weep.

His legs don’t carry him forward though. Not yet. He daren’t move, not when the Dark Lord is about to speak.

"Do you see, children?" he calls out, stretching his arms wide to encompass the lot. "Do you see what can happen when you try to defy me? You have failed again and again. Oh, at every turn you fail!"

Draco’s breath hitches in his throat, as he fights back hysterical tears. It suddenly begins to hit him in waves...Harry’s dead. Harry’s dead, and they lost. Harry’s dead, they lost, and he’s probably going to die too.

“Harry Potter is a menace!” the Dark Lord continues, indicating the body in Hagrid’s arms. “He rampaged through your school, attacking your students...your friends.”

It’s bloody farce, hearing him speak that way, but the wounds are still too fresh. The discovery of the Dark Lord’s using Harry for his own foul purpose is still too raw. Draco can feel Hermione bristle with anger, and he turns his head to catch her eye. Nothing she might say will benefit anyone, and he doesn’t want to see her hurt -- which is almost as much of a farce as the rest of this. Because she, too, is probably going to die. All the traitors are going to die.

“But now is the time to make your choice, children,” he continues, striding forwards a ways with purpose. “Choose once and for all. Join me and move forward!”

Draco glances along the lines of people and finds himself genuinely surprised that no one moves. Not Parkinson and Zabini, not Goyle, not a one of the unMarked Slytherins goes to join the man they’ve ostensibly been following all year long. He allows himself to feel that fluttering hope for a moment.

“Come, Draco,” his mother suddenly calls, her voice tremulous but still carrying across the yard.

“Yes, come my boy,” the Dark Lord adds, his tone sinister, like he knows how close they two have been. “Take your rightful place.”

Nausea threatens to overwhelm Draco at that thought, and he wonders, as a sneer curls his lip, how he could have ever thought that the Dark Lord’s favour was something to be desired.

“Draco,” Mother calls again, more steadfastly this time. “Come to us.”

He cannot deny her; he never could deny her. With a sigh, he rocks back onto his heels and stands up, ignoring Ginny’s cry and shaking off Longbottom’s hand.

“Draco!” Hermione cries out, but he ignores that too.

“Yes, yes, my boy!” the Dark Lord gleefully calls. “Come to us!”

Draco puts one foot in front of the other, though he honestly has no idea how, and slowly makes his way down the steps to them. The Dark Lord stands before him, arms spread wide, as if he intends to gather Draco up.

Draco will _not_ allow that.

He looks at his mother, whose eyes widen and sharpen for a bare moment, before he darts a glance at Harry’s body and then, in a moment of perfect, stunning clarity, he _knows_.

“Harry!” Draco shouts and throws his wand in the air.

Harry springs up and Summons the wand easily, jumping down from Hagrid’s arms and dashing over, as Draco darts to his mother’s side. He takes her hand and starts running with her back to the steps. He hears the Dark Lord snarl out a curse, but dares not look back. He trusts Harry more than he’s ever trusted anything in the entire world.

“ _Avada Kedavra!_ ”

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ”

The courtyard is bathed in violent green light, and the Dark Lord’s scream seems to wrap around it. But just as quickly, the light fades and a terrifyingly heavy silence descends.

Harry is stood tall in the centre of a small circular burn, his wand-hand extended outward. Slowly, he lowers it to his side.

Draco drops his mother’s hand and falls to his knees. It’s done.

*

The Great Hall is so loud, which Draco finds odd, in the aftermath. Aurors and Order Members scurry around taking statements and removing curses, while medi-witches and Healers tend to the injured as best they can. The dead are being carried in by friends and loved ones. But it all just sounds like buzzing in Draco’s ears, and he decides that he needs to get out of there.

He slips away more easily than he expected. He supposes he’ll have to go back sometime, make his statements, be investigated and threatened and tested for lies and treason by the people he worked alongside, even if they probably never knew about it. The others will vouch for him, but it may not matter. Draco can’t bring himself to care yet.

He’s not even worried about his mother, who he released into the custody of a Healer as soon as he could. She’ll be all right, he supposes. Malfoys always bounce back; his father had always told him that and had indeed proven it several times throughout the course of Draco’s life. He supposes in a way that his father will still bounce back from death because Draco will take up the mantle of attempting to move forward in the right way.

His feet carry him through the rubble and past the scenes of skirmishes and duels until, perhaps inevitably, he finds himself on the path down to the lake. He spreads out his tattered robes like a picnic blanket, removes his shirt and bunches it into something like a pillow, and then lies down by the lakeside. He takes a deep breath in and out and a smile comes to his lips because, after all this, somehow it’s an absolutely beautiful day.

He lies there for a long time, until the sun begins to dip low on the horizon, casting long shadows, but Draco doesn’t make a move to go back in. He’ll do it when he’s ready.

“Hey.”

Or perhaps he was just waiting for Harry.

Draco pulls himself up to sitting. “Hi,” he replies. There’s so much more he wants to say, but he cannot think of a single word.

Harry just looks at him for a long moment, as if trying to make up his mind, before he sighs and takes a seat next to Draco on the ground. “I saw them out there...all of them,” Harry says.

Startled a bit by the non sequitur, Draco turns to Harry. “Saw who?”

Harry swallows hard, but his eyes are dry, as he says, “My parents. Sirius. Remus and Tonks. Fred. All of them.”

“Oh. When you…?” Draco trails off, unable to say the word.

“No, before that. Before I died. When I was walking to it,” Harry answers. "They said they'd be with me until the end.” His expression turns briefly wry. “And they were.”

Draco shivers involuntarily.

“I suppose we have that in common now?”

“What do you mean?” Draco asks, steadfastly keeping his eyes away from Harry.

“I mean, we both died...and yet we’re both still here,” Harry answers.

A laugh escapes him before can stop it. “Yeah, fuck, yes, I suppose we did.” Draco raises a hand to press it against his chest, where he feels his heart beating steadily away. And for a second, he thinks about what might have happened if Harry and the others hadn’t gone through with trying to save him all those months ago.

Somehow, they had looked at the great bloody wreck of him lying on the ground with his heart ripped out of him and thought that he was worth trying to put back together again. And for a while, with his second chance at life, he did nothing but try to end it all over again.

“You’re crying.”

Draco swipes under his eyes with his thumbs. “Yeah...I’m crying,” he replies, even as he begins to laugh. “Fuck, Harry. We’re alive.”

“We are,” he answers, and a grin spreads over his lips until he’s laughing too.

It feels so normal, so utterly and bizarrely normal and right even after so momentous a thing as dying, to be sitting with Harry. None of this was possible before, but now, nothing seems _impossible_. Nothing, not even the long and winding road to recovery they all have ahead of them.

“We’ll get there,” Harry then says, almost as if he’s read Draco’s mind. “We’ve got a lot of work to do, but we’ll get there. I know we will.”

Hope is such a persistent thing, the way it burrows in deeply and refuses to dislodge itself from around Draco’s heart. He believes Harry. He believes fervently that when they go back up to the castle and start to rebuild, they’ll do it together.

He looks down, and Harry’s hand is just there, so close Draco can feel the heat of it, the warmth he remembers from all their stolen nights together. If he were to stretch out his little finger just that much, he could stroke it along the edge of Harry’s own. He wants to do it so badly, he can almost taste it.

He could leap, he supposes. He could stretch out his fingers and test the waters. He could see if the thing that he and Harry -- his Harry -- built was real and could be real again too.

“Draco.” Harry breaks the silence again, but doesn’t continue, and Draco feels him shift a bit closer, enough that their shoulders brush.

Draco closes his eyes and moves his hand. His fingers find Harry’s, and after a moment, they twine together. Only when he feels Harry squeeze his hand does Draco open his eyes again to look out over the calm waters. He smiles.

_~Fin~_

**Author's Note:**

> You can leave your comments here or on [Livejournal.](http://hd-collab.livejournal.com/7081.html) :)


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